


Lost & Found

by mariana_oconnor



Series: The Wolves of Timely [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werecreatures, Barney Barton is not a good bro, Barney Barton's A+ Brothering, Bartender Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, But Steve is the alpha, Canon Disabled Character, Carson's Carnival, Clint Barton is not a good role model, Clint Barton's Excellent Self Esteem, Criminal Clint Barton, Don't Try This At Home, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Hard of Hearing Clint Barton, Identity Porn, Implied past emotional abuse, Inadvisable attitudes to wild animals, M/M, Not Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Pack Dynamics, People Trafficking, Protective Natasha Romanov, Public Sex, Seriously people, Sheriff Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Werefox Natasha Romanov, Werewolf Bucky Barnes, Werewolf Steve Rogers, Werewolves, WinterHawk Big Bang, dubiously consensual heavy petting, forced cage fighting, on the part of the petter, werewolves mate for life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-07 23:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 89,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15230097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariana_oconnor/pseuds/mariana_oconnor
Summary: Clint Barton’s got a bag full of stolen money and a burning desire to stay under the radar. His old friends in the Carnival will be looking for him and they sure as hell won’t be happy. In a desperate attempt to stay off their radar, he ends up in Timely, a small town so far off the beaten track he’s surprised he even found it, and waits for Barney to comes and get him. Because Barney will be coming. Clint knows he will.But there's something about the town. Maybe it's the strange wolf that watches him from the trees, and the way people finish conversations when he enters a room. Or it could be the bartender, Bucky, who decided to hate him on sight. Something’s going on in this small town, and Clint’s not sure if he’s jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.





	1. A Timely Intervention

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. It seems my Big Bang fics have a tendency to run away with me, and this is no exception.
> 
> There is [wonderful art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15230910) by the amazing [aw_hawkeye_no](http://aw-hawkeye-no.tumblr.com) that goes with this, you should check it out and give all the kudos. There are not enough kudos in the world for having to put up with my inability to email on time and lackadaisical approach to everything.

The bag feels like it weighs a ton over his shoulder, even though Clint knows it isn’t that much, and every noise he hears sounds like pursuit. Clint reminds himself that this was the only thing he could do, the only thing he could think to do. It would get them off Barney’s back and it would keep them both safe – for now.

The road seems a lot less friendly now than it did when he had people to travel with.

He hitches a ride with a truck driver heading north, keeps his hoodie up and his ball cap on, stares out the window, and tries his hardest not to look like an axe murderer. Or like he’s got almost a million dollars stuffed in a sports bag at his feet. Fuck, he’s gonna end up dead in a ditch. Shoulda just got the bus, but they’d look for him at bus stops.

The world rolls along on the other side of the glass, stretching out, limitless and uncaring. He’s got nowhere to go and no one to turn to. He turned his back on everyone he knows, betrayed them. But he couldn’t do anything else. He couldn’t.

Fuck. He’s carrying stolen money. He doesn’t know where it came from. Just that someone paid the carnival to… Fuck. He doesn’t know shit. He just knows that he’s not going back there. Not now, not ever.

Barney will find him when it’s safe. Barney will find him and they’ll figure it out. Until then, he’s gonna try not to die or get arrested.

Shit.

He leaves the truck driver behind at the next rest stop, sees a sign pointing to civilisation and heads that way, grateful that the carnival at least taught him the rudiments of surviving alone. There’s a family eating an impromptu picnic at the rest stop and it seems like one of the kids is going through a fussy phase. He picks up the remains of a ham sandwich as surreptitiously as he can, scarfing it down before heading to the pit that claims to be a bathroom and trying to clean up.

He’s got three days-worth of stubble on his cheeks, though he’s never managed to grow a decent beard, his hair is flat on the side where he slept against the truck window, and the other side looks like it’s housing a clutch of birds. He sighs and splashes water in his face, wondering how marked bills are actually tracked.

Probably easier in big cities, he reasons, which sucks, because big cities are the best places to disappear. It’s good too, though, Because Clint’s never been a city person. Born in wide open fields and dragged from campsite to campsite. The idea of buildings teetering over him, blocking out the sun, feels strange.

So he wants to find a nowhere place, somewhere no one’s heard of Carson’s Carnival and a small town sheriff’s got no business with the feds or state cops muscling in. Somewhere across state borders would be nice, too. He can hop from one place to another, stay in one of those little boarding houses with the frilly things that you put vases on – dollies or doilies or something. Somewhere no one will bat an eyelid at him paying in cash for a couple of nights. Keep his head down, use a fake name – and wait for Barney to catch up with him.

His feet are fucking killing him.

Wherever the fuck he is, it’s forested, dense dark green trees, and he stays a little way away from the road, just to keep out of sight. He’s not used to walking like this – hiking, he supposes – and his shoes aren’t really built for it. They’re sturdy, but they’re working boots not walking boots. He only usually walks around the carnival.

But that’s over.

Fuck, what’s he gonna do?

He’s pretty sure that ‘archery’ isn’t a transferrable skill, or whatever it is they say these days. He hasn’t got a GED, or an identity. He hasn’t got a friend in the world.

But he’s got a million dollars of stolen money and a plan.

Something catches the corner of his eye and he turns without thinking, head snapping round.

There’s nothing there but trees. Clint shakes off the feeling of being watched, and heads on again.

*

Timely is a small town even by the standards of small towns, the population on the sign Clint had passed on the way in had been three figures, none of them higher than a six. It’s the type of town Clint’s seen up and down the states: small, comfortable as long as you do what’s expected. They’d called them Thru-towns in the carnival, places they passed through on the way to somewhere bigger, where the glitz and the glamour of the carnival would meet with narrow-eyed suspicion.

Clint’s hoping that he’ll get a better welcome on his own, without the stigma of the carnie hanging over him.

There are some people about their daily business, and Clint hopes it’s his imagination that they’re giving him the stink-eye. It’s definitely his imagination that the duffel bag suddenly weighs a whole lot more. With his arrival into civilisation, he’s overwhelmingly aware of every brush of the bag against him, every time it hits the back of his knee, like it’s constantly nudging him.

Just act normal, Barton, he reminds himself. No one here knows that you’re carrying over a million dollars of stolen cash. Look at you, why would they even think that? That would be crazy. The holes in your clothes have holes. Keep it together.

He shakes his head, trying to rid the stupid thoughts from him, when he walks straight into a guy.

Clint looks up, slowly, and then up some more. The guy’s huge, blonde and built like someone forgot to stop pressing the ‘muscles’ button in the factory, but it’s not the size of the guy that gets to Clint, it’s the uniform he’s wearing.

Two seconds in town and he’s already bumped into the law. His luck is in the fucking toilet.

Then he notices the shiny badge pinned to the guy’s massive chest and Clint has to seriously stop himself from wincing. This isn’t just the law, this is the local sheriff.

“Whoa,” the guy says, reaching out a hand to steady Clint’s shoulder as he jerks backwards.

“Sorry, shoulda been looking where I was going,” Clint mutters and makes to step around the guy – the sheriff – but the guy doesn’t move out of the way, just turns with him, hand still in place.

“Steve Rogers,” the sheriff says, holding out a hand. Clint looks up at his face, searching for any suspicion in his gaze, but he only finds an honest smile. Clint takes the hand and shakes it firmly. Luckily he’s already thought about an alias. It has to be something he’s never used before, but something Barney would recognise.

“Robin Pevensie,” he offers. The sheriff nods and releases his hand, seemingly none the wiser, although his nostrils flare slightly.

“If you’re looking for a place to stay, the guesthouse is up the road, take a right by the repair shop. You can’t miss it. Called the Hunter’s Moon Guesthouse, big sign hanging up outside.”

“Where are you heading?” Clint asks, aware that his big mouth is running away from him again.

“I have to go over to Bruce’s place up on the hill, check something out. Tell Sam and Nat I sent you, and if you happen to see our mechanic as you’re passing, say hi to him too.”

The sheriff pats him once on the shoulder, the controlled force of it telling Clint very clearly that this is a guy he does not want to mess with, unless he’s over a hundred metres away and has a bow in his hand. Then he peels off towards the edge of the sidewalk, looking each way up and down the road.

“Nice to meet you, Mr Pevensie – hey, that’s like in that book,” the Sheriff says.

“Yeah,” Clint says. “I get that a lot.” The sheriff looks at him for a moment and Clint thinks he’s been made already, but the guy just smiles again.

“I bet you do.” Then he crosses the road, leaving Clint on his own.

Clint makes it another few steps before he starts twitching.

Okay, Clint’s not just paranoid. Case in point – there are actually people after him and he’s actually on the run from the law. It’s not just the natural twitchiness that comes with that, though. People are looking at him.

Small town, he tells himself. They’re bound to spot an outsider, and he’s gotta look like shit, too. His jeans are holes, his hoodie looks like he slept in it. Mainly cause he did.

After the Sheriff – Rogers – peels off from him, Clint follows the directions he gave, giving the buildings the side-eye as he goes. Maybe it’s living in tents and caravans for so long, but the rigid structures seem to watch him sternly. He shrugs the feeling off and tries to project ‘nothing to see here’ as hard as he can.

The crossroads is easy to find. It’s probably the only one in town. And the auto-repair shop on the corner proudly proclaims that it can fix _anything_. Clint wonders if it can fix people. It’s a stupid thought and he scowls at himself as it occurs to him. Ain’t nothing worth fixing anyway.

As he draws closer to the open curtain door, heavy metal music catches at his ears. Clint wonders if the pun’s intentional, probably not.

He stands on the corner, his back to the diner and facing the gaping dark cavern of the auto-repair shop, and ponders the Sheriff’s words for a second. He’d asked Clint to say hi to the mechanic for him. Had he meant it?

It has the feel of a trick, somehow. Like if Clint actually does it, then they’ll laugh that he took them seriously, and if he doesn’t, the sheriff will be pissed at him. It’s always the luck of the draw which way these things come down in the end. Like walking a tightrope, one foot wrong and you end up tumbling into certain doom.

Clint was pretty good at the tightrope.

He’s rocking from one foot to the other, trying to decide whether to go in or not. His thoughts find the rhythm of his movement. He rocks left – yes, he will. He rocks right – no, he won’t. Yes, no. Yes, no. He becomes stuck on the indecision and unable to move any further in either direction.

Then he sees the pair of feet sticking out from under the car and he makes up his mind. His first instinct is still that this is a trap, but what’s a guy under a pick-up truck gonna do that the Sheriff couldn’t do himself?

“Uh… hi?” Clint says. His words are swallowed up in the music that still blares out. Clint can see the speakers now. They’re smaller than he would have thought to produce so much noise.

The legs don’t even twitch.

He could just go. Better to just leave. But he’s started now, and he’d already made up his mind. He has to finish it.

“Hi!” Clint tries again, a little louder. “Um… _Hello!_ ”

He’s practically yelling on his third attempt.

“Hi!” a chirpy voice says from behind him. Clint whirls round to see a kid standing a couple of feet away. The music had drowned out his footsteps and Clint glances around quickly to check the area. He’d left his back open, hadn’t been able to hear his surroundings well enough to know what was going on. He really is an idiot.

The kid doesn’t seem concerned by it. He’s young, mid-teens probably, with brown floppy hair and an eager smile that seems dangerously naïve to Clint’s way of thinking. Small town boy, Clint thinks for a second, and shakes his head.

“You want to talk to Tony? _TONY!!_ ” There’s no pause between the question and his sudden yell. Clint’s mouth’s open to reply, but he ends up just gaping uncomfortably, twisting round to see into the shop again.

The feet twitch, then brace themselves against the floor to pull. The mechanic – Tony – rolls out from under the truck in one swift movement.

“What’s up, Pup?” Tony asks, sitting up. He’s a bit older than Clint would have guessed, but it’s hard to make out exactly though the grease that’s covering his face and arms. Dark hair is all that Clint can determine for sure in the darkness of the workshop. “Oh hey,” Tony waves a hand and the music cuts down to barely a whisper – gesture-activated, pretty cool. “New meat,” Tony continues, and Clint is suddenly aware that he is under scrutiny as Tony leaps to his feet and makes his way over, a wrench dangling from his hand. “You got a car broken down outside of town? I can grab my truck and-”

“No,” Clint says quickly. “I just…” Fuck. Now he’s going to look stupid. He’s better off looking stupid than having the sheriff mad at him, though, he reasons. “The sheriff said that I should tell you…” he pauses, and Tony waits expectantly, his eyebrow lifting in a mocking little arc. “Hi.” Clint finishes lamely. “He said to say hi.” Tony blinks twice, looks at Peter and back at Clint, then grins.

“Of course he did, because he’s a sappy idiot,” Tony shakes his head, and Clint’s eyes drop a bit, trying to find something to look at other than the amusement on Tony’s face. There’s a smear of grease on his neck, which leads down to something that looks like a curving scar, paler than the rest of his skin. Clint follows the curve with his eyes for a second, then drags his eyes back to Tony’s face.

Strangely, the amusement in Tony’s face doesn’t seem… unpleasant. Clint shuffles a little uncomfortably. It’s like remembering a song wrong, when everyone else gets it right. He risks a glance at Peter, but his face also lacks the pity or the sneer that Clint had expected.

“At least he didn’t send you with food this time,” Tony continues. The smile on his face actually looks a little dopey for a second. “Unless he did and you ate it already.” Clint opens his mouth to reply, but Tony’s still going. “Not that I’d blame you if you had. You look half starved.”

Clint can feel his shoulders straightening at that, but he can’t stop the slight growl his stomach makes at the suggestion of food. He ignores it, even as Tony’s eyebrows climb back up his forehead, and purses his lips. He’s been feeding himself just fine, thank you.

“No need to get twitchy. What’s your name, mysterious messenger?” Tony asks.

It takes Clint a second to remember the name he had given to the sheriff. In a place like this it’s important he keeps things straight.

“Not supposed to be a brainteaser, Stig.”

“Robin Pevensie,” Clint says.

“Sounds fake, but OK,” Tony says with a wave of his hand. “Tony Edwards.” He extends a grease-stained hand and Clint takes it without thinking, even as his heart’s leaping in his chest. Tony smiles at him, broad, and not fake. It’s weird. Clint’s not even done a trick. Usually it takes an entire show for people’s smiles to grow that big. Maybe he’s pleased to have caught Clint out in the lie.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to tell people that their names sound fake,” Peter says, but Tony waves him off with the hand that isn’t firmly shaking Clint’s.

Clint forces himself to swallow down his panic and reminds himself that you’ve got to keep up a lie if you want people to believe it. Like when Barney and him used to go down to the shops and there’d always be someone who’d ask where his mom was.

Stick to the lie. Sell the lie. They can’t know for sure unless you tell them.

But still, there’s a part of his head that says he’s been in town for less than an hour and already someone knows he’s a liar.

“You think if I could choose a name, I’d choose Robin?” he asks, forcing his voice to stay steady.

“Good point, boy wonder,” Tony agrees. “Terrible name. You have my condolences. You must have really suffered as a child. Holy nominative association, Batman and all that jazz.”

“Right,” Clint agrees, pretending he knows what the other half of that last sentence means. He got the Batman joke, that’s enough, right? “Anyway, I was just… passing on the message. So I’ll go… and leave you to your work.” He starts backing up.

“Aw, bird brain, don’t be like that,” Tony says. “Where are you headed, anyway?”

“The guesthouse,” Clint says. “The sheriff said it was up here.” He points down the road. It’s safe enough to give out that information. Everyone in town will know he’s passing through soon enough. He can only hope that he’s far enough off the beaten track that the carnival won’t think to look here.

“That it is. Tell you what: how about you let Peter here make sure you don’t get lost?”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Clint tries. “Doesn’t seem like there’s a whole lot of this place to get lost in.”

“You’d be right about that,” Tony agrees. “Used to bigger places, huh?”

“Get much smaller and they’d be non-existent,” Clint replies, before realising that he probably shouldn’t have said that. He’s never been able to stop his smart mouth. It’s earned him a fair few clips round the ear in his life time and it looks like it’ll wind up getting him in trouble here too. He should at least know better than to insult a person’s home to their face. Barney’s right, he’s not got the brains to make it on his own. He still needs his big brother looking out for him.

He winces, looking at Tony through half closed eyes, but Tony doesn’t seem insulted, just amused again, like Clint’s said something actually funny. He thinks maybe they could get along. It’s been a long time since Clint’s met someone with the same sense of humour as him.

“Takes some getting used to,” Tony says. “Planning on staying long?”

“Not sure yet,” Clint says. He doesn’t want to tie himself to a schedule, and he’s still not sure this is a good plan. Sure, Barney’s got to be able to find him, but if he stays here too long then so will everyone else. This place is too small. He feels like he’s got a huge sign painted above him, with flashing lights and everything. How long will it take Barney to lose the others and find him?

“Let me know when you are,” Tony says. “Now scram, I’ve got an engine to play with.”

There’s a light touch of fingers against Clint’s skin, and he jumps back a half foot at least, moving his weight so he’s balanced, ready for an attack. But it’s just Peter, holding his hands up to indicate he’s no threat.

“The guesthouse is this way,” Peter says, twitching his head up the road. It looks like Clint’s not getting away without an escort. He’s not sure if they’re doing this because they’re suspicious of outsiders – or him in particular – or if they’re genuinely nice people. His experience is leading him to lean towards the former, although maybe he’s just too cynical.

Clint turns back to say goodbye to Tony, but the mechanic is already walking away, clearly having dismissed the pair of them. Clint hunches a bit and shrugs, turning back to Peter.

“Sure,” he agrees, trying to sound cheerful about it. “You lead the way.”

Peter doesn’t just lead the way, he seems to have decided that he’s a full-fledged tour guide, pointing out everything he sees – like the diner “where Miss Darcy works, but don’t go in there today, ‘cause Vision’s on the grill and we’re not sure he really understands what food is,” and the vet’s office – “Dr Foster and Dr Banner work there, and Dr Cho comes by sometimes,” the bar “Mr Barnes runs, only I can’t go in there ‘cause I’m underage and everyone knows it. Everyone knows everything around here.”

He lists a hundred other things and Clint lets them wash over him. His hearing’s not exactly up to par when he doesn’t concentrate on it, so less than half of the information makes it through the surface of his brain, the rest just tumbles around his ears. It’s not like he’ll be staying long, but the company’s sort of nice, and Peter doesn’t seem to want any response other than the odd grunt of agreement every now and then.

Clint’s on edge because everything’s too casual. He feels like he should be in a more tense situation than this. Something about having a high-schooler giving him a brief summary of the town’s recent history is too much normal. It’s so normal it’s abnormal. Is that even a thing? Can something be so normal it’s not normal? He doesn’t know. He’s probably overthinking this shit.

He catches a movement out of the corner of his eye and something dark is moving around the edge of a building and it’s like the world tilts the right way again. Something is watching him. He can feel the eyes on him. Someone is paying attention. That’s better, somehow. He understands suspicion.

He feels like that the rest of the way down the road. The gaze is heavy on the back of his neck, but it keeps him balanced. He’s used to being watched. Standing in the centre of the ring, all eyes on him, waiting for him to slip u - wanting him to slip up. Just make that little mistake that will slake the crowd’s thirst for drama and tragedy.

He swings his head around as naturally as possible, trying to look like a tourist admiring the place for the first time, but he can see nothing that matches the pressure of the eyes he can feel. Something is watching him and he can’t see what it is.

Ok, so that’s less comforting and more spooky. But he can deal with that.

He’s got his bow in his other bag. He’s got some arrows. He’ll manage whatever comes at him.

He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. That’s what got him in this mess in the first place. But Clint supposes that he might have to. Jesus.

“And this is the Hunter’s Moon guesthouse. It’s run by Mr Wilson,” Peter says, pulling to an abrupt stop by a building that looks like something out of a period drama – or a horror film.

At one point, the place had obviously been painted a garish shade of pink, but now the paint was faded in places and peeling in others. The decking surrounding it was old and worn, and even the sign – which showed a bird of prey silhouetted against a full moon – looked like it had seen better days. It creaked in the light breeze that blew it back and forth, an ominous sort of creak that made him think about it falling from its perch onto the head of an unsuspecting passer-by.

Clint had slept in worse places, and not even necessarily in the last two weeks.

“It’s not that bad,” Peter says, sounding a bit defensive. Clint guesses that his face must have been a picture. “Mr Wilson only took it over half a year ago after…” Peter looks at him with wide eyes, his sentence stopping abruptly. “When he came here. So he’s still doing it up. The rooms are really nice, though.”

So Mr Wilson apparently had a mysterious past and was a newcomer to the town too. Maybe Clint wouldn’t stick out as much as he had feared.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint sees something again, the dark shape, slipping round the corner of another nearby building. He turns as quickly as possible, and just catches what looks like a fuzzy tail.

Huh. Well it makes sense that people would have dogs in a place like this. Especially considering they’ve got three vets, if what Peter said is true. But then they’ve probably got a lot of farms nearby with animals on them or something. Vets are probably needed.

He did notice that Peter didn’t say anything about an actual doctor, though.

Probably best, Clint’s never been fond of doctors. The carnival has one on staff because – well, when your main business is defying death, you’re gonna have a few close calls. But Clint had never got along with him. He’d been sharp, like a wasp sting, and he had never seemed to care about any of them. Like it wasn’t his problem whether they lived or died.

“Are there a lot of dogs in town,” Clint asks, breaking his mind free of unpleasant doctor’s visits, and turning back to Peter.

Peter’s eyes go wide again, like the question is somehow steering too close to something he doesn’t want to talk about. It’s a strange reaction to have to a question about pets.

“I don’t _think_ so,” Peter says slowly. “No more than most places. I mean, maybe. Some people have dogs. What counts as a lot, though?” Clint stares at him, watching as Peter’s ears turn red. The kid’s a strange one, he decides.

“Cool, I guess,” Clint says after a moment, putting the boy out of his misery. “Thanks for showing me around.” Is he supposed to tip? Clint can never work out when you’re supposed to tip people these days. It isn’t the kid’s job, he doesn’t think. Does that make a difference?

“No problem!” Peter says, perking up again. He doesn’t seem to be angling for a tip. “Nice to meet you, Mr Pevensie.” Clint blinks, wondering who Peter’s talking to before remembering: that’s him.

“Right. Yeah. Nice to meet you too,” he replies. Peter waves once, then hares off down the road, back to whatever he was doing before Clint interrupted his day. What do kids do in small towns? Clint’s got no clue. His days at the carnival were always full, from the time he arrived there. If you had hands you could carry stuff was pretty much the rule. They’d found jobs and chores for him to do: putting up tents, taking them down. Lifting, carrying, handing out leaflets to people, drumming up business. If he wasn’t helping with that, then he was practising his archery. Normal kids have paper rounds and homework and stuff, right?

He drags his attention away from Peter’s retreating back, looking round at the street before back at the house.

It’s not _that_ bad looking. Clint really has slept in worse places.

He walks up the steps, which groan and sag under his weight, with a weary sort of attitude that Clint can sympathise with. He tries the door knob. It turns and the door swings open with another creak. It seems that every part of this building is crying out for attention.

Clint steps in. On the inside the place does not look like he’d imagined. He’d been expecting chintz, frills and lace things, floral wallpaper, but the inside’s clean and almost minimalist, but in a settled homey sort of way. He has a vague memory of the farmhouse he’d lived on as a kid. It had felt a bit like this, sometimes: sort of lived in.

Of course, sometimes it had felt like a prison, which goes to show that you can’t judge anything on appearances.

There are a few simple pictures on the wall – some photos and some paintings – a wooden chest of drawers by the door with a phone and a phonebook on it and, a little further in, a desk.

“Hey!” a voice calls from out of the depths of the house. “I’ll be out in a second!”

Clint risks a step further in. The rug is clean and he’s already wincing at the footprints he’s probably leaving on it. That hadn’t been an issue in the carnival, or in the rest stops he’s been living in up until now. He doesn’t look down, because there’s a sort of lack of blame if he hasn’t seen the muddy footprints he’s undeniably tracked in from the forest he’s been tramping through half of the day.

He almost backs out, because this place is nice. Way too nice for someone who looks like a vagrant to be sleeping in. He’ll probably get their sheets all dirty.

But he doesn’t. Because he’s told people he’s staying here, so he is. He’s gonna have to start paying for it with the money though. Shit. He doesn’t want to use the money. He doesn’t know where it came from, but it’s definitely not his.

He feels so out of place.

A door at the far end of the hall opens and a man steps through, walking forwards briskly to shake Clint’s hand. His grip is firm, solid and warm.

He’s got a bright white smile, emphasised by his dark skin, and his eyes seem genuinely happy to see Clint. That’s the second time today a complete stranger has been happy to see him.

Although at least this time it makes sense. The guesthouse isn’t exactly on the beaten path. They probably don’t get a whole lot of custom.

“Welcome to the Hunter’s Moon Guesthouse. I’m Sam Wilson, I run the place. Anything you wanna ask or complain about, come to me. Unless it’s a crime. Then go to Nat – she lives here too, but you’ll mostly likely see her wandering around town in her deputy gear.” Clint’s heart sinks more rapidly than a stone. Of course he’s going to be living in the same building as a member of the Sheriff’s department. That’s how his life works. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. “But if you want an extra blanket or the shower’s on the blink, then come to me. How can I help you?”

“Can I get a room?” Clint asks.

“Sure! Definitely. Single or double?” Sam doesn’t even glance at the ragged state of Clint’s clothes or the look in his eye. It’s weird to see like that.

“Single,” Clint says. “Please,” he adds after a moment, when he remembers that he needs the people here to like him, and to think he’s a nice, uninteresting kind of person.

“You wanna pay by card or with cash,” Sam asks. “’Cause the card machine’s down like half the time out here. We don’t have a decent connection.”

“Uh…” Clint thinks about the cash in the bag. He can’t open it here. And Sam seems like a good guy. He doesn’t want to get him in trouble for receiving stolen goods, or whatever the charges would be. But at the same time, while Clint might have enough money in his pockets for a meal at the diner, he definitely doesn’t have enough for a room at a nice place like this, where they bring you extra blankets.

His hesitation must show on his face and Sam’s face softens.

“Hey, it’s okay. We’ve all been there,” he says, reaching out to pat Clint on the arm slowly. “Look, how about this. You don’t pay right now, and we can sort something out.”

“I can’t…” Clint says, because he knows that there’s no such thing as a free lunch. There’s always a catch to everything in this world. And no one gives away a room to a guy with no prospects free of charge.

“You think I want to throw you out?” Sam says. “Look – one night free. Then tomorrow maybe you can help me out around the place: food and board in exchange for a bit of manual labour. You any good with your hands?”

Clint thinks about the slight quirk of a finger that can change an arrow from being off target to dead centre, the skill of knowing exactly where to place your hand and how to move it to throw a flaming torch so you can juggle it without getting burned. He thinks of the fine tuning he’s put into the arrows he’s made himself, and hammering together benches for the big top.

“Yeah, I can do stuff,” he says with a shrug.

“Then what’s the problem?” Sam asks, smiling again. “You’re doing me a favour. No one wants to come to see the inside after they’ve seen the outside, y’know.”

Clint can feel the wave of relief hit him. He doesn’t have to touch the money. He can do some woodwork, maybe some painting. He smiles at Sam and straightens his shoulders. He can do this. He’s been in worse scrapes than this… probably… maybe.

There was that one time with the dog and the cantaloupe.

“So, I’ll show you the room. We’ve got a few other people staying here and the guesthouse gets used by residents for events sometimes. There’s a standard once a month thing, which might get a bit noisy, but it should be fine, depending on how long you’re here.”

“Right,” Clint says. He nods and looks around.

“There’s a TV room over there,” Sam nods towards a closed door. “We haven’t got all the channels. But I’ve got a Netflix subscription for the place, so when the internet’s working you should be able to find something.”

“Right,” Clint repeats. It all feels surreal again.

“And your room will be…” Sam leans over the desk to snag a key from the hooks on the wall. “Number 6 okay with you?”

“Is there a reason it shouldn’t be?” Clint asks. Sam raises an eyebrow.

“All the rooms are great.”

“You have to say that,” Clint points out and Sam’s stern expression fades into a smile.

“True. It is good to talk up your stuff. But seriously, I know the outside looks a little…”

“Run down,” Clint offers and Sam gives a rueful shrug.

“But the rooms are all up to standard. I swear. Room six is just up here.”

The stairway up to the landing is the kind of thing Clint’s only seen in movies. It’s got a wooden curling banister that he sort of wants to slide down, and those gold rods to hold the carpet down. The first word in his head is ‘fancy’ and once again he wonders what he’s even doing here.

Maybe he should have gone to the police.

Maybe he should have just left well enough alone.

But it was all taken out of his hands when Jacques had asked him to kill that girl. He’s not going to kill for money. He’s not going to kill for Jacques.

He knows he could kill – if he had to. He can feel it in himself sometimes, when he’s sighting down the straight line of an arrow shaft towards a target, and the feeling scares him down to his bones. He knows that he has it in him to take another human’s life. He thinks he would be sad about it. He hopes he would. But he doesn’t think he would regret it necessarily.

But there are things worth killing for and money isn’t one of them.

He’s got to keep believing that. Because he wants to keep believing that he’s not as bad as he’s afraid he might be. Clint just wants to have some hope that he isn’t completely lost.

He can imagine the look on Barney’s face as he’s telling him he killed a person.

He thinks that Barney would look at him in disgust, tell him he’s just like their Dad, who killed their mum driving junk. Who almost killed both of them again and again.

Clint shakes his head to banish the memories because this is not the time. It’s never the time to think about his shitty childhood. He got out. He got to the carnival. He had Barney. And sure, that all went belly up, but he had it good for a while there, until it got too complicated.

And he’s still got Barney.

He’s got to believe that he’s still got Barney. That they haven’t found him and made him pay for what Clint did. Barney’s smart. Smarter than Clint. He knows when to keep his mouth shut, which is something Clint’s never learnt, even though it’s always been what’s got him into trouble.

“You okay?” Sam asks, and Clint realises that they’ve been standing in front of a solid looking wooden door for a while now, a shiny brass six screwed onto it. Sam’s got the key in the lock, but apparently Clint’s been too lost in his own shitty memories to be paying attention. Great going.

“I’m fine,” Clint says. “Just tired. I’ve been travelling a long way. Looking forwards to a shower and a sleep,”

“The three esses,” Sam says, grinning again. “Shower, shit and a shave.” Clint runs a hand over his jaw, maybe he is getting a bit rugged in there again. He’s pretty fair haired, so it takes a while for him to notice his beard growing in clumpy patches and his last attempt hadn’t been in the best conditions. He must look more like a hobo than he thought. “You a military man?” Sam asks.

“No,” Clint says quickly. “I never served.” It’s true. He’s not going to claim anything to get better treatment. That would just make him an even worse person than he is already. “I just… I guess it’s just the things that everyone wants after they’ve been travelling.”

“True,” Sam agrees. “Sorry, I thought maybe… there’s a look that a lot of veterans get. And a way they hold themselves.” He waves at Clint. “You’ve got it a bit.”

“I never served,” Clint snaps. He remembers his father talking about soldiers, how Clint could never measure up to being that good a man. He glares across at a picture on the far wall. It shows a smiling woman sitting at a table. There’s something familiar about her face – the eyes maybe. He feels like he’s seen her eyes somewhere before.

“Sure,” Sam says. “Look. Your issues are your issues. You don’t have to talk to me about them. I get it if you want to stay quiet. You’re welcome here. No one will bother you.”

Clint wonders what Sam thinks he is? Some sort of runaway, maybe? It’snNot that far from the truth. Clint’s shut down the veteran idea, but who knows. Sam seems like good people. Clint doesn’t want to lie to him any more than he has to to stay alive.

Sam turns the key and swings the door open.

“This is room number six. I know it’s a bit… floral, but the bed’s comfortable and the shower’s warm. As is the food.”

“Is Vision cooking?” Clint asks, remembering Peter’s commentary. It must have been accurate, because Sam’s face screws up in disgust.

“Hell no,” he says, shaking his head. “I like my guests to enjoy their meals. I cook breakfast myself. We don’t serve other meals so you’ll have to fend for yourself, I’m afraid. Although if you’re working on the building, I can probably spare you a sandwich.”

“Sounds good,” Clint says, looking around the room.

“You got any more stuff?” Sam asks, although he sounds as though he knows the answer will be no.

“Not with me,” Clint says. It’s the most vague answer he can think of. It implies that he does have more stuff elsewhere – which is true. But at the same time doesn’t offer a reason or an explanation.

“Cool. Well, let me know if you need anything. If you can’t find me, there’s a bell on the reception desk. Ring it and I should hear, wherever I am.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, nodding. Now that he’s in the room, he just wants to be alone. He needs to have some privacy because he thinks he’s about to freak out.

“You’re gonna be okay?” Sam asks, as he walks towards the door.

“I’ll be fine,” Clint assures him. He’s always fine, because being anything else is just too dangerous.

Sam nods and leaves. The door clicks shut behind him and Clint sits down heavily on the bed.

It gives underneath him with a gentle bounce and he has never sat on a bed this soft before. It’s unnerving and he wishes for the comfort of a spring lodged in his ass as it slowly goes numb. Or just a wooden pallet.

He flops back onto it, and tells himself just to enjoy it. So he closes his eyes and lets the bed swallow him whole.

Or at least that’s what it feels like the sheets smell like detergent, but not the generic smell he’s used to. It’s almost like flowers, but not overpowering. It smells fresh.

Clint realises that he’s literally sniffing a duvet and pulls his nose out of the folds, shifting his feet uncomfortably in the heavy boots he’s still wearing.

The floorboard creeaaaks under his weight and he moves it back again, just to hear the sound. He creaks it a few more times before he starts upright and stares down.

The floor is wooden boards, almost completely, covered by a few rugs, to muffle the noise, or just for decoration. And as he pushes down with his toes, letting the floorboard creak so slowly it seems like it might never end, he can see the floorboard lift the rug up – just slightly.

It seems like a sudden miracle.

He looks over at the bag in the corner, the one that’s been staring resentfully back at him for hours, and he knows just where to put it.

A few minutes later and the rug is back in place and Clint’s feeling lighter already. Out of sight, out of mind, right? That’s how it works.

He looks out the window, stretching the tension out of his muscles and hearing them pop satisfyingly. His room’s at the back of the guesthouse, away from the road, which isn’t the best thing – he won’t be able to see who’s coming. But there’s a small roof just outside his window, and it looks like getting down won’t be easy, if he needs to get outta dodge quickly.

The forest is pressed up right against the town here, and the only thing keeping it from invading the guesthouse is a little fence down at the bottom of what must be supposed to be a garden, or once was. It’s now overgrown.

He looks out at the trees and heaves a deep breath. It could be nice here, he thinks.

Then he sees the eyes. Staring out of the forest, seemingly straight at him, the reflection of light on animal irises, and as his eyes adjust to what is shadow and what isn’t he can make out a shape, huge, hulking, lupine, staring right back at him from the forest.

Clint’s swallows. He is intimately familiar with the feeling of someone measuring him up and judging him to be less than a threat. He’s seen that look in a dozen pairs of eyes in his life, but never in a face with teeth quite as sharp.

He backs away from the window.

It’s a stupid idea. Why would a wolf be staring at him, it makes no sense.

It’s his imagination. The wolf probably just saw some movement and zeroed in on him. It’s got nothing to do with him at all. Just a coincidence.

He’s sure he heard somewhere that wolf attacks weren’t common at all. Right. That’s a thing? Most wild animals will leave humans well alone.

He’s fine. It’s just a wolf. No big deal.

He closes the curtains firmly, and tells himself that he’s just being paranoid.

The carnival definitely hasn’t sent a trained wolf after him.

That would be stupid.

 *

The new guy smells like trouble. He’s throwing off scent everywhere: nerves and guilt. And he’s twitchy, too. On the run, then. Trouble probably follows him like a cape.

Bucky can feel his hackles rise as he watches the guy talk to Tony and the Parker pup. He hopes the guy is here for a single night, or less. They don’t need any more trouble around here. Last time outsiders came in, it was the hunters, and that hadn’t ended well. They don’t need more problems.

And this human – Bucky can feel it, like an itch under his fur – he’s going to be big trouble if he sticks around. So Bucky follows him, darting from nook to cranny, keeping out of sight. Either the guy’s perceptive or he’s paranoid, because he keeps looking around him, into the shadows, too. Bucky’s not used to people paying so much attention to their surroundings. It makes it a challenge.

The guy does go straight to Sam and Tasha’s place though, with the Parker kid leading him, like he said he would, but that doesn’t mean much.

Bucky stops just inside the edge of the forest to keep watch, round the back, where the trees come right up to the back yard of the guesthouse. Sam’s too nice and Tasha’s not in right now to flash her teeth and her pretty smile, so someone needs to make sure this guy keeps his hands clean.

He’s waiting a few minutes before the pale shape of a face comes into view through one of the back windows. His eyes zero in on it. The stranger looks back, right at him, and Bucky withdraws further into the shadows, away from the disconcerting sensation of being seen.

The stranger is trouble. Someone has to keep an eye on him.

*

“Bucky,” Steve says with a sigh. “You don’t know anything about him.” He’s propped up at the bar as Bucky cracks open a couple of bottles. It’s early and the place is mostly empty. Thor hasn’t even come in yet, bringing with him the jovial atmosphere that hangs around him like an aura, so the place is matching itself to Bucky’s mood instead: dark and gloomy, as always.

“I know he’s not telling us everything,” Bucky says.

“Everyone’s allowed their secrets,” Steve says. “But you can’t judge anyone on first appearances. You know that.”

“He _walked_ into town. Who does that?”

“Someone who’s down on his luck, needing a place to stay,” Steve says reasonably.

“And he’s twitchy,” Bucky adds.

“Talking about yourself again?” Natasha’s voice cuts into their conversation as she swings herself onto a bar stool. How she can get through the door without Bucky hearing or smelling her is always a mystery. They aren’t lying when they call foxes cunning. He turns to look at her and she raises an eyebrow with a smirk, like she’s reading his mind. But she can probably just smell his frustration.

She’s out of uniform, but her hair’s still pulled back into its red ponytail, so she must have just come off shift. Bucky pours her a shot of vodka without being asked, although he’s scowling at her the whole time. She just smiles serenely back.

“New guy,” Bucky supplies as he slides the shot over to her. “Stayin’ at yours.”

“Really?” she says, considering the idea, and her shot. “And he’s twitchy? Sounds like fun.”

“Twitchy like a hand grenade,” Bucky mutters.

“He’s human,” Steve supplies. “Doesn’t seem to know anything about us.”

“And we should keep it that way,” Bucky says firmly. “No good ever comes from outsiders.”

Natasha downs her shot and raises her coppery eyebrows at him.

“Don’t look at me like that. He might be your mate, but he’s an asshole all the same,” Bucky says. “I meant what I said: no good ever comes from outsiders.” He sees Steve open his mouth and swings his finger round to him. “Don’t even get me started on Tony.”

“Well no one ever said I didn’t have a type,” Natasha says with a shrug and a wink. Bucky turns his scowl into a full on glare. She can only be referencing their ill-advised attempt at a relationship back before everything got complicated. It hadn’t gone well and had barely lasted a night before Bucky had realised that girls would probably never do it for him.

“Name?” Natasha asks, letting him off the hook.

“Robin Pevensie,” Steve supplies; she looks thoughtful. “Keep an eye out for him.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to judge him based on first appearances,” Bucky says. Steve doesn’t even bat an eyelid.

“There’s being friendly and there’s being stupid,” Steve says. “You’re right: he’s clearly scared of something.”

“Come again, punk,” Bucky says. “I don’t think I heard you right. Cause it sounded like you just said I was right.” Steve gives him a flat look.

“I guess it had to happen one day,” Steve says.

“You should know I’m always right,” Bucky says. He wiggles the fingers of his right hand with a small grin and Steve sighs.

“Get some new material, Barnes,” Natasha says. He lets out a breath of laughter, then pours her a vodka cranberry, now she’s taken the edge off.

“The new guy though,” Bucky says, pulling them back on track.

“He needs someone to keep an eye on him,” Steve says.

“I can do that,” Bucky says immediately.

“He’s literally staying in my house,” Natasha points out, leaning over the bar to get a straw for her drink. “And also – it’s my job.” She sucks on the straw obnoxiously.

“We’ve had strangers come through before,” Steve says. “Why’s this one got your hackles up, Buck?” He sounds amused.

“He’s trouble,” Buck repeats. They’re both laughing at him now. “Shut up, you jackals.”

“Now, there’s no need to be insulting,” Steve says. “Play nice–“ Whatever Steve says is lost as the door swings open and a rush of smells hits Bucky’s nose, making his head turn automatically towards them. It’s the new guy.

It’s the first time Bucky’s seen him with human sight, and the addition of the red spectrum makes a few things clear. First, the guy’s fashion sense seems devoted to the colour purple; second, his cheeks are flushed; and third, his eyes, as they meet Bucky’s and stick like flypaper, are bloodshot.

Bucky becomes aware of Natasha shifting on the other side of the bar.

“So it’s like that,” she says, hiding her words behind the lip of her glass. He can still hear her though. His hearing is as good in human form as in wolf-shape. “I don’t think it’s his hackles that are up, Steve.”

He lets out a small, sub-vocal growl, though his eyes stick on the new guy. He can still hear Steve and Natasha chuckling, though.

Sam’s with the new guy. He kisses Natasha’s cheek as he comes up to her, and drags his nose over her cheek along the way. Bucky wrinkles his own nose at the scent they’re giving off, but – his eyes slide to the stranger again – no way to mention it in front of the human.

“You’re new,” he says, ignoring Sam.

“Hi Bucky!” Sam says brightly. “I’m good thanks, how about you? Oh, that’s too bad. Yeah, I’d love a drink, thanks.”

New guy darts a look between Bucky and Sam for a moment.

“Hi,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. He’s spewing out ‘nervous’ like a teenager trying out perfume for the first time, and his eyes keep flicking over to Steve every other heartbeat. “Robin. It’s nice to meet you.” He offers a hand and Bucky doesn’t take it. He’s only got the one hand, not gonna waste it on that.

“Want a drink?” he asks instead.

“It’s the customer service in here that keeps me coming back,” Sam says to Robin – cause he thinks he’s funny. “Robin, this is Bucky Barnes. He’s always this cheerful.”

“It’s looking at your face that makes me so happy,” Bucky replies. “And the reason you keep coming back is because it’s a two-hour drive to the next bar.”

“Nope,” Sam tells him cheerfully. “The reason I keep coming back is Thor.” There’s a murmur of agreement from Natasha. Bucky ignores it. He knows it’s true. Thor is the heart and soul of the party and there’s no denying it. Bucky just keeps the place running.

“Drink?” he asks new guy – _Robin_ , if that’s his real name.

“Whatever you have on tap,” he says. Bucky quirks an eyebrow, then proceeds to pour him a glass. He gets Sam his drink at the same time, and sticks an umbrella in it. Maybe with some luck it’ll poke him in the eye and he’ll have to leave for the evening.

“You run this place?” Robin asks. Bucky just grunts in a vaguely affirmative way.

“Keeps him out of mischief,” Steve says. He’s grinning like he knows a secret. Bucky hates it when he gets that look on his face. New Guy looks at Bucky curiously.

“You don’t really seem the mischievous type,” he says.

“Oh, I think you’d be surprised,” Natasha says. “Pleasantly surprised. He can be _very_ mischievous.” The way she says it sounds dirty, and Bucky shoots her a look, but it has no effect. Nothing ever does have an effect on her.

“If you stick around, you might get a chance to experience it first hand,” Steve adds.

“I’m not really planning on being around for long,” Robin says. He doesn’t look like a Robin, but if he’s not staying for long, then Bucky doesn’t need to care about his name.

“Shame,” Bucky says, though he knows his voice doesn’t convey the sentiment. He can see Sam shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. “So what do people call you for short?” Bucky asks. If he’s honest about it, it’s less words and more of a growl, but the meaning comes across. He plays up the low frequencies, the ones that really make humans go full fight or flight, just to see what ‘Robin’ will do.

“Uh-“

“Rob? Robbie? Bob?” Bucky supplies.

“Rob, I guess?”

“Don’t sound too sure about that,” Bucky says. He can see the guy shifting uncomfortably, smell the nerves coming off him, stronger than ever. “Should know your own name, shouldn’t you?”

“I – Rob. People call me Rob,” ‘Rob’ says, more firmly now. “What’s Bucky short for?”

“Buchanan,” Sam supplies. “James Buchanan Barnes.” He takes a smug sip of his drink and the acid look Bucky gives him only serves to make him look smugger.

“Why are you in town, anyway?” Bucky says. Ignoring Sam can be tiring, but it’s better than the alternative.

“Bucky,” Steve says. There’s warning in his tone and his scent, just that slight touch of _I-am-alpha_. Bucky ignores him too, because he’s been ignoring Steve Rogers throwing his scent around since they were pups.

“Passing through,” Rob says. He’s ignoring the other two as well, eyes glued to Bucky, and he can’t tell if it’s a challenge, or one of those fear things where you can’t look away.

“On your way somewhere nice?”

“Nowhere in particular,” Rob replies.

“Sometimes you’ve just got to move around,” Sam says, clearly trying to break the tension between them, but his words barely make an impact, sliding right off. “Got to be interesting: having nowhere to be, free to see the world.”

“Something like that,” Rob agrees, not turning away from Bucky. Then he finally turns, smiling easily and standing with an ease that does not come across in his scent. “I’ve never really stayed in one place long, though. I guess I’m used to it.”

“Military brat?” Natasha asks. Rob blinks, then swallows.

“Not really. Just moved around a lot.” He shifts uncomfortably again. The conversation has strayed too close to something, Bucky notes. Interesting.

“Robin,” Steve says, stepping round to place a hand on Robin’s shoulder. The guy flinches under it, twitchy. He’s so very twitchy. Steve pretends not to notice it, because Steve’s like that. “How about a game of pool to welcome you to town?” He sounds cheerful, but his scent is full of disapproval. He thinks Bucky’s being too hard on the guy. But Bucky’s doing what’s necessary to protect the pack. Guy walks into town smelling of guilt and regret, you’ve got to ask questions.

“Sure,” Robin says. He grabs his glass, avoiding Bucky’s gaze, and Steve leads him away to the back, where the pool table’s set up. Bucky watches them go.

“Should we have warned him Steve’s a pool shark?” Sam asks.

“He’ll find out soon enough,” Natasha says, before turning to Bucky. “You need to tone it down.”

“Just making small talk,” he says with a shrug.

“No, you’re performing an interrogation,” she says. “And you’re not very good at it.”

“Someone’s gotta ask.”

“Steve and I have it handled,” she hisses. “Let us do our job. He’s probably just a regular human guy, passing through. Think with your brain, not your instincts.”

“He’s running from something.”

“Isn’t everyone?” Natasha asks. “It’s got nothing to do with the pack.”

“Until it does,” Bucky says. “Way I remember it, Pierce had nothing to do with the pack either. That ended up just great.” He rolls the blunt end of his shoulder to emphasise his point, but Natasha holds his gaze.

“Steve wasn’t in charge back then, neither was I.”

“Stevie’s playing pool with the guy,” Bucky points out.

“And probably getting more information from him than you ever will after your display a minute ago.” Natasha draws in a deep breath and mutters something under her breath. “I’m going to go and be sympathetic when he loses.” She turns to Sam. “Are you coming?” Sam shakes his head.

“I’ve seen Steve wipe the floor with people at pool more than enough times. I’m fine here.”

“Yeah, mostly when he’s wiping the floor with you,” Bucky says.

“Play nice, boys,” Natasha admonishes, then kisses Sam on the forehead before walking over to lean against a pillar and watch Steve’s inevitable victory.

“It’s the rebounds, man,” Sam laments into his beer. “How do you bounce the eight ball off four cushions and still get it in the pocket?”

“He’ll say it’s his alpha reflexes,” Bucky says. “But really it’s just that one summer he spent six hours a day practising.”

“Seriously?” Sam looks up at him.

“He really wanted to beat me,” Bucky says with a shrug.

“What happened when he succeeded?” Sam asks. Bucky chuckles.

“I guess you’ll find out if it ever happens.”

There’s a laugh from the pool tables. It’s not a laugh Bucky’s heard before and he turns around to see the new guy grinning and slapping Steve on the shoulder and heading for the table with his cue. He looks relaxed and Bucky’s eyes track his movement as he leans over the table. It’s a far cry from how he’s been since he arrived in town. His body isn’t twitchy, it moves with assurance and… well, it’s not graceful exactly, but it’s not far off.

The door opens again and Bucky drags his eyes away from the new guy to see Tony heading for the bar. He starts pouring out a ginger ale automatically.

By the time Tony’s reached the bar, it’s already ready and he pushes it across and into his outstretched hand.

“Where’s my husband?” Tony asks in lieu of a greeting, but Bucky’s used to that by now. Tony tends to leap to the part of the conversation he’s interested in, his mind just skips over all the boring bits of life. “Do I have to go and drag him away from paperwork again?”

“Not tonight.” Bucky nods towards the pool table. “He’s showing the new guy who’s boss around here.”

“Oh,” Tony beams. “I do love it when he exerts his dominance.” Sam and Bucky’s joint groans just make his smile wider. “New guy? Oh, Mr Robin This-is-an-alias Pevensie?”

“You’ve met?” Sam asks.

“Yeah. Steve sent him to say ‘hi’,” Bucky says with an eye-roll. He swears he never taught Steve to be this big of a sap. The idiot got that all from his own soppy brain. Tony narrows his eyes.

“Are you doing your wolf-stalker thing again, Barnes?” he asks.

“He’s concerned that new guy’s gonna start the apocalypse or something,” Sam says. “He’s trying to drive away my customers.”

“Tut tut,” Tony says, wagging a finger. “Bad Cujo.”

“I can rip your throat out with my teeth,” Bucky says. Tony takes a deep drink of his ginger ale and smacks his lips together with relish.

“But you won’t, because that would make Steve sad.”

“Don’t push me,” Bucky warns, but there’s no threat behind it.

“Anyway, if I’m not mistaken, my dearest mate is not doing so well,” Tony says, slipping off the bar stool. “Perhaps I should go and give him a shoulder to cry on.”

“What?” Bucky and Sam turn as one to look towards the pool table. Sure enough, Steve’s standing away from the table, watching as ‘Rob’ pots ball after ball.

“Damn. New boy’s got game,” Sam mutters. “He’s really beating Steve?”

“Looks like,” Bucky says mildly, but his eyes are fixed on the newcomer again. No one beats Steve. No one except Bucky, anyway, and he hasn’t done that since he lost his arm. Steve’s a master of the pool table; everyone in town know you should never play him for money. Sheriff or not, he’s not above a little harmless wager. Bucky wasn’t kidding about the practising either. It’d been before everything. Before Pierce and Tony and well before Sam had come into town. Back then, the only difference between Steve and the pool cue he’d been holding was that one of them was filled with rage at the injustices of the world. Steve’d got in more than one fight over that pool table. If _Pevensie_ is beating him then it means something.

At the very least, it means there’s more to him than meets the eye. Bucky’s definitely going to keep watching.

Pevensie pockets the eight ball, making a shot that’s nothing short of showing off to chip it gently into one of the top pockets, and Steve shakes his hand, grinning madly. He’s never been a sore loser when you play him fair.

Bucky’s eyes meet Robin’s again for a moment and they stare across at each other.

There’s something building in the air between them. That same itch is coming back under his fur. There’s something here. He can almost–

The door bursts open again and he smells the familiar scent of Thor flood in.

“Good evening, my brothers!” Thor declares. “What have I missed?”

“Steve just lost,” Sam says. “He actually lost.”

“The sheriff has been defeated?” Thor asks, stepping behind the bar and wrapping the little apron around his waist that Bucky always refuses to wear. “Who defeated him?”

“That’d be me,” Robin says, as they come back to the bar.

“Then you drink on the house,” Thor says. Robin shoots Bucky a look.

“I’m not sure that’s…”

“That’s the rule,” Bucky says. “Someone beats Steve, they get a drink on the house.”

“That was amazing,” Steve says, patting Robin on the back again.

“You weren’t so bad yourself,” Robin says.

“He didn’t miss a single pot,” Steve says to Bucky. “You should have seen him.”

“I have good aim,” Robin tells them with a shrug.

“Let’s get a couple of drinks in you and see if you can still shoot pool that well when you can’t see straight,” Sam says. “I’ll buy you the next one. It’s worth it just to see him lose. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this night? Do you know?”

“A while?” Robin asks.

“Steve hasn’t been beat in almost a decade,” Bucky says.

“It’s a momentous occasion,” Thor agrees. “Be proud. We should have a photograph of this moment.”

“No pictures,” Robin says. “I… I don’t like pictures.”

“No pictures,” Steve agrees. “But you have to play me again. I need a chance to reclaim my title.” Tony wraps an arm around his waist.

“It’s alright, sugar pie. I still love you even if you are a loser now.”

“Best of three,” Steve says, his eyes sparkling with the fierce determination he gets whenever he sees a challenge.

“Sure, why not?” Robin says, taking the drink that Thor passes to him and looking around at the crowd gathered around him a little awkwardly. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

*

Clint _likes_ this place.

It’s not just that people have been buying him drinks all night. Nor is it just because he’s won a couple of hundred bucks at the pool table. It’s the way people are here. They like each other. They tease and they banter, but they _like_ each other. It’s a novelty, like a mythical place where people aren’t all looking after themselves first. Jacques would call them easy marks, but Clint’s not sure that’s true. They seem sharp enough, but they just… like each other.

Clint stayed in the bar far longer than he should have done. After most of the others had left, talking to the bar flies who went there every night. Right up ‘til closing, when Thor had lifted him easily from his seat and told him it was time to depart.

Clint loves Thor. Thor’s great. Way better than that other bartender. The glary one. With the glary eyes. The pretty but angry one.

Bucky. That was his name. He’d been pretty sucky.

Bucky the sucky.

Heh. Clint giggles and he has to lean against a wall to steady himself.

He catches sight of a dark shape out of the corner of his eye and turns towards it.

“You’re a very big dog,” he says to the shape watching him patiently from the shadows. It steps forwards. “You’re a very very big dog,” he corrects. He’s never seen a dog this big. “Where’s your human?” He reaches out a hand towards the creature, but stumbles. The animal steps forwards to bump him back upright and Clint tangles his hand in the thick fur on its head. “Can you walk me back?” he asks. “I don’t think I remember the way, and I can’t go back to the bar ‘cause… ‘cause… Sucky Bucky’ll glare at me again. Did you roll your eyes? Can dogs roll their eyes? That’s so cool.

“I never had a dog. Always wanted one.”

The big black animal nudges against his leg and starts to walk along the road, dragging Clint in its wake. “There were the lions, but that’s not the same, you know.” He pats the dog’s head. “You’re a good dog,” he tells it, then scratches it behind the ear, winning a surprised rumble from it. “Huh? You like that?” He scratches again, but the dog shakes him off. “Guess not. Oh! We’re here!”

Clint looks up at the worn but welcoming front of the Hunter’s Moon guesthouse.

There is a nudge on his back as the dog practically pushes him towards the door.

“Thanks,” he says to the dog. “You’re awesome.”

He staggers up the steps and makes it to his room. He likes this place.

Clint collapses face first onto the bed. God it’s been a long time since he slept in a bed.

The fuzziness of the alcohol and the soft bed combine to surround him in a comforting cloud of contentment and it swallows him up into dreams.

 *


	2. Fill Your Boots

Working in the bar is useful. It at least means that most of Bucky’s day is free to do with whatever he wants. Traditionally, this has meant watching terrible daytime TV, or running in the forest in wolf-shape. Today, however, it means phase one of Operation: Finding Out What the Hell is Up with New Boy can go ahead.

He’s working on the name.

After helping the guy back from the bar last night. Bucky’s not about to let anyone sleep in a gutter if he can help it, he’s even more confused about what the hell is going on. Why the fuck was he talking about lions? Maybe big game hunting? That seems plausible enough. But that sort of pastime is usually a rich person’s hobby, and Bucky would eat his hat if Pevensie’s got more than twenty dollars to rub together.

If ‘Robin Pevensie’ is a hunter, he’ll be looking for evidence of the pack. He’ll be poking his nose in where it’s not wanted, asking questions, looking for tracks and the like. They have experience with hunters and, even if Pevensie turns out to be a stealthy motherfucker, he’s not going to escape notice. And honestly, Bucky can’t imagine the guy being stealthy enough to sneak up on a blind, deaf donkey.

If, on the other hand – which Bucky thinks is more likely – he’s a thief, he’ll be trying to work out where the biggest score is.

If he’s working for the werewolf trackers, or the Hydra gang, then…

Well, if he’s working for them, then Bucky will rip his throat out before he has a chance to scream.

Bucky’s house is a little off the beaten path. Steve calls it his bunker and purses his lips, Sam calls it his sulking shack with an eyeroll, and Tony likes to refer to it as the nightmare house because apparently it reminds him of horror movies he’s seen.

It’s just a cabin in the woods, Bucky doesn’t see the problem.

He’s not planning on being human much today, so he doesn’t bother with clothes. He’s got a stash at Steve and Tony’s place anyway, and another at the guesthouse, and some more at the bar, so when he decides to shift back, he’ll be fine. But wolf-shape is good for now. It’ll be good to stretch his legs a little. He can run faster and more steadily over the rough terrain as a wolf, even with only three legs.

The forest blurs past him as he makes his way to town, a route he’s run a thousand times before or more. It’s familiar and he knows every ditch and root. There haven’t been any high winds recently, so there aren’t any new fallen trees to catch him out, so he makes it to town in less than ten minutes, but rather than trotting right in, like he would usually do, he skirts the edge, stalking round the outside.

The local wildlife steers clear. The werewolves are tolerated, but avoided in general, so the woods around him are quiet.

The guesthouse is on the edge of town, which is useful. It means he can use the natural camouflage to his advantage. A quick sniff of the air and he can smell that scent that has his fur up on end – Pevensie’s here still. Bucky hasn’t missed him.

He waits, calmly, patiently. He’s good at waiting. The stillness doesn’t bother him as he settles into his most comfortable position, one he knows won’t strain his front leg too much. He waits.

It isn’t far past dawn, so it was probably too much to expect the man to be up this early, he had been drinking heavily the night before.

But then, something stirs. He can see into the window and the curtains twitch and pull back, displaying Pevensie, shirtless, staring out at the world with a tired look on his face. Sleep doesn’t seem to have helped him much.

Bucky reminds himself that it doesn’t matter how impressive the man’s chest and arms are, displayed to the world, he’s still a liar who is threatening the pack.

Pevensie doesn’t seem to catch sight of him this time – Bucky’s camouflage must be paying off – and he pulls away from the window, fading into the darkness, presumably to get up. It’s okay, Bucky can wait a bit longer. He’s got all day, after all.

Sam is in the kitchen, also at the back of the house, and he’s dancing to the radio. If Bucky listens he can hear the ringing voice of some pop princess that he should definitely be teasing Sam for listening to.

Pevensie comes to find him, and Bucky watches as Pevensie stuffs a couple of pieces of toast into his mouth and downs two mugs of coffee that still have the steam rising from them. He and Sam seem to be talking seriously about something that has Pevensie shuffling his feet and scratching at the back of his head as he talks. Bucky can’t quite hear the words, muffled by the walls and the windows; even in wolf-shape his hearing’s not that good. But when they move to the back door and Sam swings it open, his ears perk up.

“I just haven’t had time to get round to it,” Sam’s saying with a shrug. “And I’m not exactly a carpenter. You said you had experience at this sort of thing.” Bucky’s face can’t really frown in wolf-shape, but he comes as close to it as a wolf can, trying to work out where this is heading.

“I’ve worked on some… props,” Pevensie says. “For stage performances, y’know. And I put up some tiered seating a couple of times.”

“Did it stay up when everyone was sitting on it?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, no injuries. Still standing today, as far as I know, and I helped to make it about…” Pevensie thinks for a second, biting on his lip and staring into the middle distance. “Six years ago it must have been.”

“Well that sounds like experience to me,” Sam says. “And you’d be doing me more than a favour. It’s not like we get a lot of out of towners round here, but I bet we’d get a lot more if the place didn’t look like it was in ruins.”

Pevensie is helping with the renovations on the guesthouse. Bucky takes a moment to think this through, but he can’t see how it might help the guy. It’s possible that it’s a cover, trying to ingratiate himself with the locals to lull them into a false sense of security. He might slip away for a break during the day, or question Sam about things around here. Bucky can’t afford to lose his focus just because of one detail. Pevensie still smells like trouble.

Sam thanks him again and Pevensie sets to work, looking through Sam’s tools and examining the wood he has piled under a tarpaulin in the yard.

More surprising is the fact that he seems to know what he’s doing. He doesn’t waste time once he’s got the lay of the land, starts measuring things up and looking at what needs doing, marking the broken parts with a red sharpie.

“Well this looks like it might take a while,” he says, then takes a step back and yelps as his foot goes through the top step and he falls.

The fall turns into a roll, which turns into Pevensie back on his feet, in a display of acrobatics Bucky is unsure he actually witnessed. That didn’t look like a fortuitous recovery; that looked more like a move learned so many times that it became intrinsic muscle memory.

Bucky was right, there is more to Pevensie than meets the eye. He’s had training. He requires further observation.

All he does for the rest of the day is pull apart the most broken bits, taking them and laying them in a separate pile in the yard. Watching him’s not the most fascinating day Bucky’s ever spent, but it’s not terrible. He stretches out in a patch of sunlight, observing as Pevensie heaves the wood up and carries it along to throw it back down. It’s almost soothing, so much so that Bucky finds himself in a strange trance-like state.

He’s relaxing, still watching Pevensie strain his biceps as he lifts the wood, when he hears a sound behind him and only just manages to summon the energy to dart out of the way as Natasha, in fox-shape, pounces onto where his head had just been.

_Has he done anything suspicious?_ She asks him, or rather she cocks her head to one side in question and twitches her nose towards him, letting suspicion colour her scent. The language in their shifted shapes is less precise, but they can convey what they need to, mostly.

Bucky huffs and flops back down, indicating how boring Pevensie is being. Natasha darts around him, looking over to Pevensie and then back again. She reaches out to cuff Bucky’s ear, her scent turning fond but concerned. Bucky pushes her away with his front paw. He doesn’t need her concern. He’s got this covered.

Natasha shakes herself and then darts in to bump their faces together briefly in a rare show of affection. She barks the fox version of goodbye and hares away, probably to report back to Steve that Bucky is hiding in the woods again.

Bucky resettles himself back in the foliage before becoming aware that the noise from the guesthouse has stopped. He freezes and looks up to see Pevensie staring out into the forest. For a long moment, Bucky feels like he’s been caught again. He could swear that Pevensie’s eyes are looking right into his. He doesn’t understand why, but the feeling freezes him to the spot.

“Is someone out there?” Pevensie calls. Bucky keeps as still as a stone, and the only reply comes from the wind in the trees and the lone call of a bird. “Hello?” Pevensie tries again, but still receives no answer. After another second of staring hard into the wood, he shakes his head and mutters.

“You’re paranoid. There’s no one there. Not yet. You’re good,” he mutters under his breath.

Bucky wonders who ‘they’ are. Another mystery about their visitor that needs to be solved.

*

On his second morning, as the sun is rising, Clint pours himself into a chair at the diner. It’s a chirpy sort of place: plastic with bright colours and a seventies sort of vibe, which is almost certainly authentic rather than retro nostalgia. He likes it. The utter artificiality of it all reminds him of the carnival.

His back aches and he has no idea what time it is. He’s pretty sure that’s the sun coming up, not going down, and the place is empty as a ghost town – apart from the waitress, who emerges from the back, still tying her apron on. She blinks at him slowly, twice, before seeming to realise that he’s not a hallucination.

Clint gives her his best shit-eating grin, trying his hardest not to be _that customer_ because the service industry is shit. Clint sold popcorn to baying crowds for too many years not to understand that.

“It is too fucking early,” she says. “I need coffee.” Clint isn’t sure whether this is directed to him or just at the world in general, as she doesn’t wait for a reply, just turns on her heel and heads for the coffee machine. “You’re the new guy, right? Staying up with Sam and Nat at the guesthouse?”

“That’s me,” Clint agrees. He keeps his wince internal, because he knew that a small town was a bad idea. Everyone’s going to know everything about him in minutes. He’s just got to hope this place is small enough that the carnival doesn’t stumble across it. “Robin Pevensie, at your service.” He gives a little half bow. That gets him a tilt of an eyebrow. She’s not an easy audience, then.

“Don’t you sleep, new guy?” she asks as the coffee machine whirrs into life. Clint winces outright this time and ducks his head, because he’s pissed her off already. Of course he’s pissed her off. It’s way too early for anyone to be dealing with him. Hell, it’s too early for him to be dealing with him. He shouldn’t have tried for cheerful. No one likes cheerful first thing in the morning.

“Not last night,” he says with a shrug, toning it down. It’s true enough. The first night he’d been so tired from walking all day and drinking all evening, that he’d fallen face down into the bed and been unconscious till morning. Last night, though, even though he’d been hauling wood around all day, he hadn’t been able to sleep a wink. The bed was too soft, the world outside was too loud, and he kept remembering those noises he’d heard in the woods all day, convinced that Jacques or one of his lackeys was going to come jumping out of the shadows and hustle him off, never to be seen again.

No one would care if Robin Pevensie went missing. He’d just be another guy passing through town.

He knows it’s paranoia. He has to stop jumping at shadows. It’s not healthy and it’s not going to end well, but there’s always that little part of his brain that says they’re coming for him.

“Oh… one of _those_ nights,” the waitress says, ignorant of the whirling thoughts in his head. She perks up a bit, though, seeming to sniff out something interesting. Her mouth curls into a smile that’s really more of a leer. “Who was it? Spill the beans. Who was keeping you up all night?”

The question makes Clint sputter, and if his mind automatically flashes, unbidden, to a fall of dark hair and a hard as steel glare, fingers working their way over a glass with long sure strokes of a cloth, then no one needs to know.

“Ooh, there is someone,” the waitress says, catching onto his expression with delight. “Tell me! I need to know. No one ever tells me anything.”

“Naw,” Clint says quickly, holding up a hand. “Just me, I’m afraid.”

“TMI, dude,” she says with a frown. Clint leans into it and gives her a wink. “Tee. Em. Eye,” she repeats, then downs a cup of black coffee with a smack of her lips. “That’s the stuff. You want some?”

“No, I just came in here for the atmosphere,” Clint says. “But if you’re offering.”

“Meh, you’re cute,” she says. “So I guess you can have one big guy.”

“Cute?” Clint asks. He’s never been called cute before and, honestly, he feels a little insulted. Kittens are cute. Children are cute when they’re not pooping on you or throwing popcorn at your head. Clint is not cute. Has she seen his gun show? “I’m not cute,” he informs her. “I’m a stud. I’m _hot_.”

“Sure you are, cutie,” she says and sets a mug down.

“Have you seen my biceps?” Clint flexes, because what the fuck? And she reaches out to poke his right arm with one finger with a bright red nail. She shrugs, less than impressed, and fills up his mug instead.

“Have you seen Thor?” Clint has seen Thor and, okay, he’s willing to admit that he’s not quite up to that standard, but he’s definitely not ‘cute’.

“You want anything in that?” she asks, then watches as Clint reaches out with one hand to grab the sugar shaker and pours a reasonable amount in. She grins brightly then reaches out to bop him on the nose with the same finger that found his biceps lacking.

“Adorable,” she says.

“Did you just boop my nose?” Clint asks. Sure, he’s not entirely awake, but that doesn’t feel like a normal thing to do to someone you just met. She sets the coffee aside and crosses her arms on the counter, leaning over so their faces are close together. For one puzzling moment Clint thinks she’s going to kiss him and he wonders if he’s hallucinating his life becoming a porno or something.

“Always boop the snoot, dude,” she says with a seriousness usually reserved for delivering news of terminal illness. “Always boop the snoot.

“I’m Darcy, by the way, since you’re trying so hard not to look at my name tag.” She straightens up and offers a hand which Clint takes automatically. Her handshake is firm and sure. “Two dollars for the coffee, but the first one’s on me ‘cause of early morning solidarity. You want anything else?”

Clint wonders how anyone in this town manages to survive if they keep giving everything away for free. First Sam, now Darcy. There’s got to be a catch.

Clint’s stomach rumbles in answer to the question and he grimaces at the sound. He’s been rationing the last of his funds so he doesn’t have to break into the stolen money, but he’s probably got enough in his pocket for a meal.

As he pushes his hand into his pocket he comes across a larger wad of bills than he was expecting. Where the fuck did that come from?

He vaguely remembers people the night before last pushing money into his hand and sighs in relief when he remembers the pool tournament he had started.

And no one had even punched him in the face.

But beating people at pool isn’t a long term strategy. He’s going to have to find some way of making money so he doesn’t starve to death. At least it looks like that’s a problem he can save for another day.

“What’s good?” he asks. Darcy’s grin turns a little wicked.

“Honestly? It’s Vizh’s shift in the kitchen, so not much.”

“I heard that, Ms Lewis,” says a voice that drifts in from the kitchen. A man steps out, strangely serene considering he’s just been insulted. Clint’s never seen a cook look so calm before. He’s even dressed the part, with the big white puffy hat and everything. Clint finds himself staring at it in confusion. He was pretty sure those were just made up by Hollywood.

“We have chilli,” the chef –Vizh, Clint guesses – says. Darcy slumps dramatically onto the counter.

“Vizh,” she groans. “It’s 7 am. No one wants chilli. We’ve talked about this.”

“I could go for some chilli,” Clint says, mainly just to be contrary. Darcy levers her head off the counter and looks at him, her eyebrows all the way up her forehead.

“Excellent,” Vizh says with a smile before turning to glide back into the kitchen.

“Oh man,” Darcy says. “You want the chilli? Seriously?”

Clint shrugs.

“What’s wrong with the chilli?” he asks. Darcy looks at him as though he’s asked why up is down.

“I don’t know,” she says after a minute. “That’s the point. _You never know_. Vizh does everything by the recipe, but it’s always weird. No one ever finishes it.”

“Why’s he still working here then?” Clint asks. Darcy frowns in confusion.

“He likes it,” she says.

“Yeah, but…” Clint says, but he trails off when she keeps looking at him expectantly, like hiring someone who’s good at their job is something she’s never heard of. This town just keeps getting weirder. “Well cool, I guess,” he says and nods again. “I’m gonna go… sit…” he tells her before heading over to a booth by the window and rests his head back against the tacky plastic upholstery, staring out the window at the town, which is beginning to show signs of life.

He drifts for a moment, in the lazy not-sleep space, until his meal is plonked down in front of him. Clint looks up into Darcy’s wicked grin. He likes this girl, he decides, grinning back a bit.

“Tell you what, new guy: if you finish that, it’s on the house.”

Clint looks at the bowl and the wedge of cornbread next to it. It _looks_ okay. He takes a tentative spoonful.

Darcy watches avidly.

Well… he’s eaten worse. He’s eaten a lot worse. He’s pretty sure Barney served him rat once, back when they had literally nothing and Barney was busting his ass off to keep the pair of them alive. Even that had tasted okay if you used enough of the little ketchup packets Clint had been hoarding from the counters at fast food places.

So yeah, it tastes… not terrible, but it definitely doesn’t taste like chilli.

That doesn’t matter so much, though. It’s food and he’s hungry. And he’s not about to pass up her offer. So he keeps eating and – maybe he’s got faulty tastebuds or something  - because it sort of gets better as it goes along, like Stockholm Syndrome for your mouth, as long as you don’t think about what the weird chewy bits are.

The bell over the door rings out merrily, announcing a new customer and interrupting Darcy’s fascinating observation of Clint’s chilli eating. It’s a good thing he’s used to an audience or he’d be weirded out by now.

It’s Tony, the mechanic.

“Darcy, darling, light of my life, guiding star in the darkness of my soul, queen of my heart,” he calls out.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before,” she says, grabbing a mug and the carafe of coffee. “Sit down. I’ll grab you a coffee before the sheriff comes after me in a jealous rage.”

Tony scoffs.

“Steve’s a puppy,” he says. “Also, he’d know it was entirely my fault.”

“Wouldn’t stop him from glaring at me, though,” Darcy says. “Have you seen the look he gets?”

“Yeah, s’hot,” Tony says, gulping down the hot coffee in a way that speaks to Clint on a spiritual level. “Nothing hotter than a possessive we-“ Darcy suddenly seizes up in a coughing fit, spluttering and having to put the coffee down so she doesn’t spill it and Tony stops, stepping closer before turning to look around the diner. “Oh, hi Nightwing! Didn’t see you there.” He pats Darcy on the back a couple of times as her coughing dies down and she straightens up. “Wait a sec.” Tony is staring at Clint, his eyes suddenly alight and Clint’s initial thought is ‘shit, this is it. I’ve been found out.’ But then Tony continues. “Is that the chilli?”

Tony turns back to Darcy, twisting his whole body. “But isn’t it Vizh’s day in the kitchen?”

“Yup,” she agrees cheerfully, before leaning over to stage-whisper “he seems to like it.”

“Holy shit!” Tony twists back again. “Pevensie, what’s the matter with your stomach?”

Clint grins, feeling a bit more like himself.

“What? Not tough enough to try it yourself?” he asks. “It’s damn good chilli.” He makes an exaggerated _mmm_ noise, smacking his lips together. “Delicious. Might be a bit too spicy for you, I guess.”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Tony says, narrowing his eyes.

“Me? I ain’t doing anything but enjoying some damn good chilli.” Clint gives his best innocent look. It used to work better when he was four foot nothing and his eyes were too big for his head, but he’s been shilling folk out of money since he was eight years old and Tony’s almost on the hook, he can see it in the guy’s face. “I’d let you try some of mine, but I don’t want to waste it on you. In fact, I think I’ll have another bowl.”

Two bowls might be too much, but Clint understands the importance of taking your meals where you can. He’s already stuffed one of his pockets with cornbread, just in case, but chilli doesn’t carry well, so he’ll stock up well now.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Pevensie,” Tony says, but Clint can see the curiosity sparking in his eyes. “I’ve tried Vizh’s chilli before.”

“He’s trying a new recipe,” Darcy pipes up. Clint doesn’t know if she’s telling the truth, but it’s nice to have a co-conspirator. She grins at him behind Tony’s back, giving him a double thumbs up.

“I know you’re lying,” Tony says. Clint takes another mouthful of chilli, never breaking eye contact. “Oh. Fuck you. I’ll have a bowl of the chilli, Darcy.”

“Coming right up!” she says.

Watching Tony take his first mouthful of chilli is a beautiful thing. The contortions his face goes through before he spits it out are hilarious and Clint can’t help the laughter that spills out of him.

“Fucking _hell_ , Pevensie,” Tony declares. “And you’re on your second bowl of that?”

“Yup,” Clint says, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“I take it the chilli was not a success,” Vizh says, his voice making Clint jump. He hadn’t noticed the guy coming in. He doesn’t seem upset by Tony’s reaction, which makes Clint feel a bit better.

“Sorry, Heston,” Tony says, “but practice makes perfect.”

“Maybe if I tried it with more chilli,” Vizh says thoughtfully before disappearing into the kitchen again. Clint watches him go in bemusement.

“Is he always so…” He can’t think of the word he wants.

“Yup, that’s Vizh,” Tony says. “He says every failure is a learning experience, and he loves to learn.”

“And he doesn’t mind…” Clint trails off again.

“That he’s widely renowned as the worst cook in the county?” Tony finishes for him.

“Nope,” Darcy answers, topping up their coffees. “Half the time he’s the one tricking people into eating them. It’s a rite of passage. Everyone’s got to try at least one of his dishes.

“Do I get anything special for finishing it?” Clint asks. He’s probably pushing his luck.

“They’re already on the house, what more do you want?” Darcy asks. Yup, Clint’s overstepped again. He’s being an asshole and he knows better than to question a free meal. You never like the answer. “But you do earn a place on our wall of fame. I’ll go grab my camera.”

“No!” Clint says, too quickly. “That’s okay. There’s no need to stick my face up on the wall. I’m good.”

“You ate two bowls,” Darcy says, looking significantly down at the now empty bowl in front of Clint. “This needs to be recorded for posterity.”

“Naw, you don’t want my ugly mug on your wall,” Clint says. He can see Tony eyeing him shrewdly from across the table. Clint braces himself for the questions.

“Don’t suppose you can stay until the summer,” Tony says instead. “There’s a festival and an eating contest. Thor’s won it for the last… well, as long as I’ve been here, but if you can handle two full bowls of Vizh’s chilli, you might be able to knock him off the top spot.”

“Uh…” Clint pauses. “Probably not. I’m not planning on sticking around long. I have to meet up with my brother.”

“That’s a pity,” Tony says. “But what’s your secret?  Is it sleight of hand? You’ve been secretly slipping it all under the table? Or have you perfected teleportation? You’ve got to tell me.”

Darcy seems to have forgotten about the picture subject and is looking at him expectantly.

“Believe me, that’s not the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth and swallowed,” Clint says, giving an over the top wink, because no one wants to hear ‘I know what it feels like to be starving and literally anything is better than that.’

Tony blinks and there is a long pause where Clint thinks that maybe he’s gone too far before Tony cracks up laughing, slapping the table with his hand.

The bell rings again and Clint’s feeling so relaxed that he doesn’t even feel worried when he glances at the doorway. Not until he sees who’s walking in, anyway.

It’s the bartender, Bucky.

There’s a moment before he sees Clint lurking by the window when his face is empty of the scowl Clint had been beginning to think was bolted on. He looks tired, but when he sees the coffee Darcy’s holding out for him, he smiles. Just a bit. And Clint can’t take his eyes off it. He likes looking at pretty people and lord knows there are a lot of them in this town, but that tiny fragment of simple, honest happiness – he just wants to pocket it and hold on. Like the faces of little kids when they saw him perform.

Then Bucky glances towards the sound of Tony’s laughter, catches sight of Clint and the smile cracks into the familiar scowl. He takes an aggressive sip of his coffee and strides towards them.

“Making friends, Stark?” Bucky asks in a tone of voice that _strongly_ implies that he hopes the answer is no. Clint can feel himself puffing up a bit at the obvious dislike. He’s never been one to take criticism lying down, and such blatant antagonism is a red rag to a bull.

“Always,” Tony says easily. “You know me – making friends and influencing people.” He winks and Clint’s ears must be playing up again, because he could swear that Bucky makes a noise that sounds like a growl.

“As long as you’re the one doing the influencing,” Bucky says. Clint doesn’t know how a man can swagger while standing still, but Bucky manages it. Clint knows that this is the time to try to be invisible. He knows it deep in his bones. He’s in the shadow of a guy who’s pissed off and looming. Every event in his life has taught him that this is when not to be noticed.

But Clint’s never been able to disappear when he should. His big mouth and bad attitude, Trickshot says it is, with Barney chuckling in agreement. And this time is no exception to the rule.

“Hey grumpy cat!” he says. “I was missing your sunshiney disposition.” He gets a grunt in acknowledgement. “Have you tried the chilli?” Clint asks. Grey eyes dart towards him and pause.

“Have you?” Bucky asks.

Clint – well, he’ll always use the excuse that he was raised in the carnival, because it’s a convenient excuse, but that’s not why he has terrible table manners; the real reason is that he’s an asshole… So he belches on cue, because he’s an asshole, and rubs one hand against his stomach.

“Two bowls,” Tony says. “the man’s a machine. And he makes blow job jokes.”

“It was delicious,” Clint says.

“The chilli or the blow job?” Tony asks and Clint just raises his hand for a high five, which he receives. He could get to like Tony.

“Darcy,” Bucky says. “Get me a bowl of chilli, please.”

Clint doesn’t hold back the smirk. That was honestly too easy.

“Get me another, please,” Clint adds.

Bucky makes a determined effort at the chilli, he really does, and Clint’s got to admit he’s beginning to regret this, but he’ll be damned if he gives in. Vizh even comes out from the kitchen to observe, and Tony and Darcy are exchanging money. Clint’s pretty sure he hears Tony say something about ‘scientifically impossible’.

Clint finishes his bowl just after Natasha, the terrifying deputy sheriff, walks in and takes in proceedings with a quirk of an eyebrow and a slight tilt of her head. Bucky, who is less than three quarters of the way through his own bowl, glares at Clint as he scrapes his spoon around to gather his final mouthful, but sets his own spoon down.

“I’m done,” Bucky says. “I like myself too much for this.”

“Not a problem I’ve ever had,” Clint says, raising his hands in victory, ignoring the funny looks he’s getting from the peanut gallery. Bucky ignores him and stands up, heading over to chat with the deputy. There’s no way Clint’s butting into that conversation, a guy who hates him and a cop – no, thank you.

“Don’t mind Maugrim over there,” Tony says, patting Clint on the shoulder. “He hasn’t been socialised properly. But you did just lose me ten dollars.” Clint glances over to Darcy who gives him a thumbs up. That is the look of a woman who just won some cash.

Over Darcy’s shoulder, though, Clint can see the deputy shooting glances at him and, in Clint’s book, that means it’s time to make himself scarce.

He says his goodbyes and heads out the door, getting an offer from Tony that, if he’s ever at a loose end, he should head to Tony’s place to see if he can do some of the ‘boring jobs’. Clint says he’ll think about it and meanders out before the deputy has time to question him about anything.

He wanders out of the diner and back towards the guesthouse with a lighter step than he’s had in a while, even if he is just the wrong side of pleasantly full.

The sun peeks out from behind a cloud and he has the strongest sense that this is going to be a good day. It’s an unnerving feeling.

*

Natasha is not convinced by Bucky’s plan to shadow Robin Pevensie until he does something wrong. Well, she’d rolled her eyes and said ‘of course that’s your plan’ before letting him leave so he could continue with said plan.

The problem is that people seem to like the guy. That’s dangerous in its own way. If no one else is going to be keeping an eye on him, then Bucky has to.

The chilli is sitting unpleasantly in his stomach. He shouldn’t have let the guy goad him into that, but there had been something about the challenge in his eyes that Bucky hadn’t been able to resist.

He slips into wolf-shape in the bar, leaving his clothes there for later, and heads back to the guesthouse.

It’s another long day of watching Pevensie take things apart, hefting wood from here to there. Sam delivers him water, but Pevensie turns down the offer of food in favour of fishing something out of his pocket.

It’s the cornbread from earlier. Bucky watches as he eats one piece and wraps another two up, presumably to keep for later. He’s probably still full from the chilli, but who takes the cornbread away from the diner in their pockets. If he’d asked Darcy he could have had it wrapped for him there. And why turn down Sam’s offer of food in favour of Vizh’s dry cornbread.

Bucky almost loses track of time, watching Pevensie get back to work, still wondering about that cornbread, and he almost forgets he has somewhere to be before he hears the town clock chime five and he remembers that he has a shift to get to, and he’s going to need his opposable thumb to do it.

He gives Pevensie one last, hard look before he goes, as if that’s going to reveal something new about him, but it doesn’t, and Bucky sighs sadly.

The next few days pass much the same. Pevensie fixes up the house, Bucky watches until it’s time for him to go to his shift. Sometimes Natasha pops in in her fox-shape, but she never stays for long, and Bucky always has the feeling that she’s laughing at him.

*

A week into his stay and Clint’s tired and really fed up with all things made of wood. His back aches from leaning over to saw the planks into the right lengths and his neck is peeling from the sun. He is not in the mood to talk to pretty much anyone. He wants to curl up in his bed and turn the tiny TV on so he can watch trash and maybe drink some of Natasha’s cocoa. For a cop, she makes a mean hot cocoa.

But before he can escape, he finds her waiting for him, sitting on the reception desk and swinging her legs, looking about as far from a sheriff’s deputy as she could manage.

“Robin, just the guy I was looking for,” she says. “We should hang out.”

“Tonight?” Clint asks, knowing that he sounds pretty pathetic.

“If you’re free,” she tells him. “Unless you have somewhere else to be?”

He thinks longingly of his bed upstairs and the very comfortable pillows.

“Nope, nowhere else to be,” he says out loud. “But I kind of need to shower.”

“Great, I’ll be in the TV room when you’re done.” She hops down off the counter and heads for the TV room, swinging her hips as she goes.

Clint stifles his groan, because he just knows she’d hear it, and pulls himself up the stairs.

He’s feeling a little more alive by the time he’s showered and dressed in something that doesn’t stink of sweat, and when he makes his way into the TV room, Natasha’s painting her toenails in vivid blue and watching what looks like a rom-com. If she thinks this will break him then the joke’s on her, Clint will watch anything. He falls back onto the sofa, splaying his arms and legs wide.

“Watch it,” she says, giving him a small glare, “you’ll make my hand slip.”

This has all the flavours of a sting operation. Clint wouldn’t be surprised if she was wearing a wire, to be honest, but he’s here now, and he guesses this had to happen sometime.

“So, Robin,” she says, her tone light and perky and completely unlike the voice he hears her using the rest of the time. “How are you liking our little town?”

And so the interrogation begins.

She is very good.

Clint’s been interrogated by the FBI – only once – and they had nothing on Deputy Natasha Romanoff. She peppers the conversation with innocuous questions and gently leads them up to the big ones. She darts around subjects without ever directly stating them, and she gets him talking, even though he knows what she’s doing. It’s cunning, it’s slick and Clint would admire her if he wasn’t the one being interrogated.

They watch three films as the war of stereotypically girly behaviour escalates. Clint braids her hair, she paints his toenails, because by that time she’s just trying to see how far he’ll go, and she’s backing the wrong horse if she thinks Clint has any shame left regarding his appearance and sparkly purple. It’s a good colour and it really does look good.

By the end of the evening, he doesn’t think he’s said anything too incriminating, even though she had brought out the beer half way through, and he also thinks he loves her, just a little bit. She’s as hard as nails, but her sense of humour has him snorting beer out his nostrils. They are giggling on the couch when Sam walks in and sighs at them.

“You were supposed to be in charge, Nat,” he says.

“I am in charge,” she tells him.

“She’s definitely in charge,” Clint agrees, patting her knee that is slung across his lap.

“We should keep him,” Natasha declares. Clint’s pretty sure she’s not as drunk as she’s letting on, but then neither’s he, so he shouldn’t talk. She reaches out to tug at the tuft of blonde hair just over his ear.

“Sorry, Nat,” he says. “I’m just here till my brother picks me up,” he says. The words slip out of his mouth too easily and he remembers – he hadn’t told anyone that. Hadn’t even mentioned that he had a brother. Looks like her plan has worked at least a little bit.

When he’s sober he’ll probably feel worse about this.

“Are you sure he’s coming?” Natasha asks, her voice just sharp enough to cut. He can’t tell if it’s a deliberate dig, or if she’s just too drunk to filter, but the words are like a smack in the face. He recoils from her physically.

“He’s coming,” Clint says, as firmly as he can. “And you guys don’t need me in your hair anymore.” He stands up, setting Natasha’s feet aside gently. “Guess it’s time to say goodnight.” He nods at them both and heads for the stairs. His hands are balled into fists.

He reaches the stairs when he hears Natasha’s voice call after him.

“Sorry Robin. I shouldn’t have said that,” she says, her voice gentle again. “He’s your brother, of course he’s coming.”

Clint pauses, but doesn’t reply, and the words mock him all the way back to his room.

“He is coming,” he repeats firmly to his ceiling, willing sleep to take him.

*

Sam’s got everything he could possibly need for the porch. He’s got the tools and the materials, although Clint’s got no idea what most of the shinier things are for. He’s used to making do with what he’s got. He tries not to think about it too hard. It’s a porch, he can build a porch. He knows what it’s supposed to look like and he doesn’t need any fancy tools to do that. So far it’s been going okay.

Rebuilding a porch by yourself is a pretty labour intensive task, though, especially one as big as this, and Clint’s got his work cut out for him. It’s been days, and he’s only barely got round to the part that involves actually doing stuff rather than taking stuff apart.

He still hears the rustles in the woods every now and then, and he’s seen dark shapes sometimes, merging into the shadows of the forest so well that he’s not even sure that they’re there. There’s something in the forest, that’s for sure, but it hasn’t come out of the shadows yet, and Clint can’t tell whether he should be worried or not.

It looks canine in shape when he catches sight of its shadowy form, and he tells himself it’s probably a dog or something similar. He’s seen enough big dogs wandering around town. None of the townspeople seems to mind.

That doesn’t help Clint with the feeling that the thing’s watching him though. Watching and waiting, but for what, he couldn’t say.

So he keeps on working, pulling his weight because that’s what you do, and making friends with the locals in the bar in the evening, or when they pass by. He goes into the diner sometimes, and he gets on with Darcy like a house on fire, but he avoids Deputy Natasha, since their ill-advised movie night, who looks at him with far too much knowledge in her eyes, and he avoids Bucky too, when he can, although it’s a little difficult when he’s serving the drinks.

Whenever Clint looks at him, Bucky is staring back, not hiding his glares. Clint grins back, and sometimes raises his glass in salute, which just doubles the glaring.

He hopes that Barney turns up soon, he’s not sure how much longer he can handle this.


	3. To Catch a Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a scene with an injured animal in this chapter. See the end notes for more information. There is also a brief allusion to Clint having previously been assaulted for hitting on guys.

The sun has been getting progressively hotter over the past few weeks. Summer’s come early this year, it seems, or maybe this is typical spring weather here in Timely. By midmorning it’s beating down on his back unwaveringly. His neck’s going to be bright pink again tomorrow, Clint just knows, and the rest of his back, too. He doesn’t have enough clothes to soak this shirt through with sweat.

He’s sawing out a new length for one of the broken boards he’d removed, when he feels the unmistakeable, and now familiar, sensation of being watched.

There is still that first moment, when his heart rate leaps and he’s sure that Jacques has found him. Or that Bucky Barnes has finally come to have a few words, like he’s clearly been dying to do since Clint set foot in the town. It may be paranoia, but Clint assures himself that it’s the totally healthy sort of paranoia, because it’s happened before. As much as people enjoy the spectacle of the carnival when they’re watching, outside the glamour of the evening show a carnie is a different matter, especially one with a big mouth and a bad attitude.

These days the gun show Clint’s packing usually makes the locals think twice, but he’s been cornered more than once and not all of his broken bones have come from taking a fall. It’s also never helped that he’s very open minded about the people he puts the moves on. There are a lot of small towns where that’s not something you advertise.

So yeah, there’s a part of him that’s sure that Bucky’s going to come looking for his pound of flesh and Clint knows how that would end for him. So when he turns to find the source of the feeling on the back of his neck and finds a wolf watching him from the tree line, he’s actually a little relieved.

They stare at each other for a moment, and Clint tries to remember everything he never learnt from the lion tamer. Something about confidence and having massive balls.

Mostly the lion tamer only talked to anyone when he was drunk… so probably not the most help in the world.

“Hi,” Clint says, because what else do you say to the massive killing machine that’s watching you? “Bet you’re hot under all that fur.”

Sam had come out about an hour ago with a bottle of water for him and there’s an old, battered dog dish that’s been sitting on the porch since before he’d got there. It’s powder blue with the name ‘Princess’ painted on it in large white letters. Clint fishes it out and pours out some of his water, setting the bowl down a decent distance away. He hopes that the wolf can’t read, because it might take offence at being called Princess, although come to think of it, it should be pleased that he thinks it looks so regal.

He backs away from the wolf, keeping his face to it. Clint has a feeling you’re not supposed to turn your back on wolves. Or is that tigers? Whatever, it’s got big teeth, best to keep it in his line of sight. In his experience, you always want to keep an eye on something that could kill you.

The heat settles in on him again, hugging in around him. He hopes this is a freak heatwave and not a sign of things to come. He lifts the bottle to his lips and tilts it up, hoping to relieve the sandy dry feeling on his tongue, but there’s barely half a mouthful left. He looks down at it in dismay and sighs.

Looking up again, the wolf’s still watching him. Its eyes are pale. Is that normal for wolves?

“Look, I really need to get back to work,” he says. “I mean, the guy whose place this is? He’s a nice guy, so I can’t let him down, alright? He’s letting me stay for free if I fix the place up, and I can’t really afford to find somewhere else right now. So I’ve gotta – y’know – do the fixing?” The wolf doesn’t look impressed, just watches him impassively. There’s something off about the way it’s standing and it takes Clint a moment to realise it’s missing one of its front legs.

He remembers the dog that first night and stares at little harder at it. His memories from that night aren’t exactly clear, and they’re definitely not in the right order, but he remembers the big dark shape of the dog and the feeling of thick fur under his fingers.

“Are you following me?” he asks it. “Cause if you are, you must be really bored.” The wolf does not reply. “Just, can you not kill me so I can get back to work?” No reply, so Clint imagines the other side of the conversation, making it up from the stiff, disinterested way the wolf was still watching him. “Easy for you to say, but I’ve tried sleeping in the woods. I definitely prefer a mattress, and I’m broke as fuck, dude.”

The wolf just sits there, honestly, it’s getting a bit judgemental now. What has Clint’s life got to that he’s being judged by a wolf? No, it’s best he doesn’t try to answer that.

“I think I’ve got some food round here if you want it,” he says, fishing in his pockets. There’s a crumbled piece of bread wrapped in a napkin. It half disintegrates as he takes it out. “I mean, it’ll probably taste terrible, and I’m not even sure wolves can eat bread, but if you’re hungry…”

The wolf shakes itself and stands up to trot back into the woods. Clint watches it go for a second, then calls after it.

“You forgot your water!”

He stares at the dog bowl in irritation.

Would it be bad to pour the water back out of the dog bowl and into his bottle?

It’d probably be bad.

He totally shouldn’t do it.

*

Clint’s not sure who he’s expecting when the knock comes on his bedroom door. He doesn’t know anyone who would be looking for him this evening.

When he cautiously swings it open, it’s Sam, heaving a garbage bag, full to bursting, over his shoulder.

“Hey Robin,” he says. “I hope I’m not overstepping, but one thing led to another and I kind of…” he pulls the garbage bag in front of him. “I noticed you didn’t have many clothes, and I happened to mention it to May, down at the hardware store? And she just dropped this off. I know it’s a bit weird, but… maybe they’ll fit you.”

Clint blinks, because there’s so much in that little speech that he can’t…

He looks down at himself. He knows he looks a bit… like a hobo, but he hadn’t thought it was so bad people would give him clothes. Sure the t-shirt’s worn thin in places, and the jeans haven’t been washed in a while, and he gave up on underwear about a week ago, but no one can see that. But, he’s still dressed.

“You brought me clothes?” He asks. It’s not that he has a problem with the idea of second-hand clothes. He’s been wearing Barney’s hand-me-downs his whole life. But there’s something odd about being given clothes by a complete stranger, about people talking behind your back.

“Is it really that bad?” he asks, looking down at himself again. There’s a coffee stain on the shirt that he hadn’t noticed before. As he looks back up, he catches Sam’s wince

“You might want to branch out a bit,” Sam says. “No judgement, you’ve got to travel light, I get that. But since you’re in town for a while, you might as well have a few extra changes of clothes. Just in case. And honestly, May… well, she’s had these things hanging around for a while now. You’d be doing her a favour. If you don’t take them, they’ll just end up being thrown out.” He shrugs.

Clint could refuse, there’s still a little spark of pride in him that suggests he do just that. But pride’s not worth much when it really comes down to it, and some new clothes actually sound pretty good right about now.

He reaches out and takes the bag, and Sam grins widely at him.

“Great! She’ll be happy to hear they’re going to a good home.”

“I’ll see if they fit,” Clint says with a nod. “Thank her for me, would you?”

“You can pop down to the store yourself,” Sam suggests. “She works there most days and you might need to pick some stuff up for the porch at some point. Great job with that, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, a little uncertainly. Sure, he’s managed to make it less terrible, but it’s not like it looks professional or anything, and there’s that one board that seems to wobble no matter what he does. The quiet stretches out a little awkwardly until Sam grins again, then turns to run down the stairs, leaving Clint to back into the room dragging his new bag full of clothes in after him.

The clothes mostly fit. They’re a little tight in the arms and chest, and a little long in the trousers, but they’re good quality and hard-wearing. There’s even a pair of old boots that are right around Clint’s size, worn in perfectly so they don’t rub at all.

He looks at them all, lying on his bed, and wonders what the hell he thinks he’s doing. He didn’t set out to con this town, but it seems that they’re determined to be taken for a ride, no matter what he does.

*

A few more days and Clint really feels like he’s starting to make a difference to the porch, there are even a few bits he’s actually proud of. That wobbly board wobbles no more. He has defeated it, and he allows himself a little dance at the victory, then stands back to survey what he’s done. There’s something about looking at it and knowing that _he did that_ , which makes him feel like he just shot three bullseyes upside down and blindfolded. This porch is his, and maybe there are a few little mistakes here and there, a couple of gaps maybe, but it’s his. Even if Jacques catches up with him, this little corner of this porch will still be here, and it will be Clint’s. Maybe he’ll even get to finish it before he moves on. That’s a nice thought, sticking around long enough to leave something behind.

He used to scratch his name into trees and benches in the towns they stopped at, just so someone would know he was there, that Clint Barton had existed.

Now he’s building something, and maybe it won’t have his name on it, but it’ll still be his. He grins to himself, packs his stuff away, and heads inside to clean up before searching out some much needed alcohol.

He finishes washing off the layers of dirt and sawdust that have accumulated over the day and grabs his new jacket – new to him, anyway. There’s a handwritten name on the label. He’s not sure who Richard is or was, but he had decent taste in leather jackets, although his arms were apparently a little smaller than Clint’s.

He takes the stairs down to the hallway at double speed, he’s really looking forward to that drink. Even if he does have to take the glare that will no doubt accompany it. But it could be worse. It is a pretty glare.

Sam and Natasha are in the hallway, standing very close together; close enough that Clint feels the need to clear his throat to let them know he’s there.

“Robin?” Natasha says, looking over at him in confusion. “Are you going out?”

“To the… bar?” Clint says, feeling a bit wrong footed. They do this several nights a week; it shouldn’t be that odd. But their faces do not look encouraging. They’re staring at him in complete confusion.

“It’s closed tonight,” Natasha says, turning to Sam. “I thought you told him.”

“I thought you or Steve told him,” Sam says with a shrug.

“Closed? But it’s not Monday.” Clint says a little helplessly. He feels his shoulders slump. He guesses it has to be closed sometimes. Bucky and Thor need holidays too. “Right. Yeah… guess you forgot to mention it.”

“Sorry.” She does sound genuinely sorry, which makes him feel a little better.

“Everywhere in town is closed tonight,” Sam says. “We’re having our monthly town meeting.”

“Everywhere?” Clint repeats. That ends his plan of finding booze and a pizza somewhere else. Looks like he’s staying in and watching TV, then.

“Yeah, sorry,” Sam says. “You’ll be alright on your own, right?”

“What? Oh, sure. I’ll be fine. I’ve still got the TV.” Clint grins and gives them a shrug. Natasha doesn’t seem fully convinced, but she nods after a moment.

“Well, we’ll be back late,” Sam says, pushing the front door open.

“Don’t wait up,” Natasha adds, giving a little smirk that strays dangerously close to evil.

Clint sighs as the door closes behind them and pulls off his jacket and shoes before heading into the TV room.

Outside, people are walking past in twos or threes, all heading in the same direction. It’s a bit weird, but he supposes they’re all going to the same place, although… some of them – quite a few of them – seem to be walking their dogs. The town meeting must be pet friendly. He’s seen quite a few dogs around town in the last couple of weeks, but he hadn’t realised quite how many of them there were. Some of them look almost like the wolves the sheriff told him he might see. Weird.

Some of them don’t even seem to be accompanied by humans. Maybe the wolves are having a meeting too?

The flow of people wanes until the street outside is completely empty. The world, it seems is empty, like he’s sitting in a ghost story and someone’s about to say the words ‘it was a dark and stormy night’. Not that it is dark outside, yet, but the oranges and pinks of the sunset seem somehow sinister in the solitude.

Clint shakes his head and turns back to the TV. The British Baking Show is on and they’re trying to make dioramas out of biscuits. That’s far more exciting than the creepy hollow feeling that’s running down his spine.

He’s not used to the strange brittleness of silence in the other rooms. He’s not sure he’s even been this far away from another person for this long in his life. There was always someone, usually Barney, snoring or swearing, or just existing, nearby. Clint’s hearing’s not always the best, it comes and goes, but there’s usually some sound that gets through, at the moment the building is practically silent. And the quiet seems to press in on him. He turns the volume up on the TV, but only because he wants to hear what’s going on, so what if he’s already got the subtitles on. It’s no big deal.

There’s no such thing as monsters – well, not of the non-human variety. He’s met a few of the other sort in his time.

Clint makes it through the rest of the episode. One of the dioramas collapses under its own weight, another is declared to not have enough ‘snap’ as the judge beheads one of the little gingerbread characters in it.

Dog Cops is on next, and he settles in, feeling a bit more comfortable.

Until he hears the scream.

Somehow it manages to cut through the fog that usually clouds his ears, savage and scared. The fact that he it at all with his fucked up hearing means that it must be pretty damn loud.

Clint’s on his feet and putting his shoes on in a second, hopping from foot to foot, not bothering with the laces.

His bow is upstairs. There’s no time to grab it, so he seizes the rolling pin instead as he legs it through the kitchen. He brandishes his weapon like a baseball bat as he heads out the door.

The night air is cool, and the bright light of the full moon casts the world in a silver glow, washing the colour out of everything, but still making it clear enough to see.

An owl hoots, not too far away. Only one of his ears picks it up. Luckily his eyesight is better.

There are no more screams as he peers out into the silvery world, but he does see leaves moving in the undergrowth, wriggling impatiently back and forth. There is something out there.

Clint steps forwards as carefully as he can, imagining he’s walking on the high wire and a millimetre’s misstep can mean the difference between thunderous applause and the crunch of breaking bones.

The movement comes again. Whatever it is doesn’t seem large enough for a human, unless they’re crawling about on their stomach, but if someone’s hurt out here, they might not be able to stand.

He takes two more steps towards the source of the movement, lifting the rolling pin over his head, when a blur of fur leaps out at him.

For a moment, he thinks the wolf that’s been following him has finally decided to come for him. Then he realises the creature is too small and not dark enough. There are even flashes of white in its fur as it lands gracefully at his feet.

A fox.

Clint stares at the fox for a moment and the fox stares back at him. Its look is steady and calm, with an eerie familiarity to it that Clint can’t put his finger on. The wild life in Timely sure does like to stare at you. He feels like an exhibit in a zoo, like the animals are getting their own back.

“Don’t suppose you saw anyone screaming nearby, did you?” he asks, peering out into the forest. He should have brought a torch. The moonlight is all well and good in the open, but the trees block most of it out when you get further into the woods.

The fox looks at him for a long moment, then opens its mouth and _screams_. Clint’s mouth falls open and a shiver goes right through him. It sounds just like a person crying out in fear.

“Oh… that was you, huh?” he says, his voice a little shaky. He lowers the rolling pin, feeling very foolish all of a sudden. It was a fox, not a person, which makes sense. What did he think he was going to do? Rescue someone from an attack with nothing more than a rolling pin? “I thought someone was in trouble,” he explains to the fox as it continues to look at him expectantly. “But if it’s just you, then I guess… have fun?” He shrugs. “Try to keep it down?” Clint rolls his eyes at himself. “I sound like an old mad with noisy neighbours. I need to get a grip on myself, for fox sake.” He pauses. “Get it?”

The fox is standing in his shadow, so he can’t be sure, but it looks like it actually rolls its eyes. He’s about to comment when its ears prick up and it runs back into the forest, tail wagging, lost in shadow.

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” he says to himself before trudging back inside and puts the rolling pin back where he found it. He laughs at himself as he catches his reflection in the hall mirror. Some knight in shining armour he looks like, with the worn out t-shirt and ripped jeans. Who’s he even trying to kid?

Sam and Natasha still aren’t home by the time he gives up on late night TV and heads up to his room. He’s not sure when they do get back, although he’s woken around sunrise by the bang of the front door. He listens for a second to the giggling, then rolls over and goes back to sleep.

*

The next day the whole town seems half asleep, except the little kids, who have twice as much energy as usual. They’re playing in the street and he can hear their voices calling out some game with rules he can’t understand as he starts to hammer in the nails.

Even the wolf seems more sluggish than usual, when it eventually turns up, slinking out of the shadows to collapse at the bottom of the garden. It’s still watching Clint work, but seems unable to summon the energy to do it while standing up.

It looks kind of pathetic, actually, hardly the big bad wolf today.

“Do wolves get hangovers?” he asks and it offers him a half-hearted snarl. It’s kind of cute how hard it’s trying to be scary.

It’s probably a stupid idea, but Clint’s felt like the wolf looks a few times in his life. He’s not the best at life choices, which is pretty evident from how he’s on the run from his old colleagues. There’s a sort of solidarity there, in that Clint knows exactly what he wants when he feels that crappy. He’s still got the dog bowl and an even bigger bottle of water, not to mention half a bacon sandwich in his pocket. He was really looking forwards to that sandwich, but he needs all the friends he can get, and if one of them happens to be a three-legged wolf that’s sort of stalking him, then he guesses friends come in all shapes and sizes. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that shit.

He pours some water into the bowl and carries it carefully over to the end of the garden, maintaining a healthy sort of distance from the wolf as best he can. He’s a sucker for puppy dog eyes, but he’s not a complete idiot. He leaves the sandwich next to it, then goes back to his work.

It’s a few minutes before he risks a look over towards the bowl, and sees the wolf lapping eagerly at the water. The fist pump he gives probably isn’t all that subtle and it draws the wolf’s attention right to him. It keeps lapping at the water defiantly, though, as if to say ‘I understand that I am doing what you want, but fuck you, because I’m doing what I want too. And I’m a goddam wolf.’

“You’re welcome, Princess,” Clint says with a snigger. There’s a slight snarl from the wolf, who apparently doesn’t appreciate having its drinking interrupted, but it keeps drinking the water, so Clint reasons that he’s probably not going to die today.

The bacon sandwich is gone, too. Clint might have earned some brownie points there. Just as long as you don’t feed them after midnight, right? Wolves and gremlins, very similar things. Probably.

A while later, probably a couple of hours, from the slow creep of the shadows across the ground, the wolf perks up, its lethargic movement all but gone as its head snaps up and both its ears twitch forwards.

Clint’s barely had time to notice it moving, when it’s on its feet, disappearing into the woods.

“And I didn’t even make a pun this time,” Clint mutters. “Was it something I said?” he calls out to the trees.

“Was what something you said?” A voice asks from behind him. Clint jumps about a foot in the air, then turns sheepishly to see the sheriff standing watching him, a pleasant expression on his face and sunlight glinting off his badge.

“Nothing!” Clint answers quickly. It’s an automatic response to any question from an officer of the law. “Hi Sheriff Rogers! Fancy meeting you here.” He waves, a stunted little thing, barely more than a waggle of his fingers, but it’s hard to concentrate on anything other than _what did he do?_

“I’ve told you before, Robin: it’s Steve,” Sheriff Rogers says with an easy smile. He has told him before, but that’s an easier thing to understand in the dim light when everyone’s got a drink in their hand. Right now, Rogers looks like a sheriff from one of those old Hollywood westerns: blonde hair, biceps, and good-natured morality shining out of him like a beacon. If you got someone to draw a picture of ‘a sheriff’, they’d draw a picture of Rogers like he is right now. He’s too much of a stereotypical ideal to be real.

And he plays pool like he’d sell his grandmother to pot the eight ball. It makes Clint’s head spin if he thinks about it too hard. He’s not sure he can cope with the law being made up of actual people.

“Just thought I’d see how you were getting on,” the sheriff says cheerfully. It’s hard to think of him as Steve when the badge is _right there_ , reflecting the sun into Clint’s eyes with every breath the sheriff takes. “It’s looking good. You’ve done carpentry before? Sam said something about scenery for stage productions.”

“Something like that,” Clint agrees, because he can’t quite bring himself to lie directly to the man’s face. It feels wrong somehow, like stealing from a nun.

“It’s kind of you to help out like this,” the sheriff – Steve says with an honest smile.

“Not really.” Clint shuffles awkwardly from side to side, and can’t quite bring himself to look the sheriff in the face. “I mean, Sam’s letting me stay here for free while I do it, so…” He shrugs. He’s not selfless, and it’s not out of the goodness of his heart. This is entirely self-serving.

“Yeah,” the sheriff says, like that’s not even relevant. “Sam’s good like that. I’m glad he decided to stay on. But you were planning on just passing through yourself, and you’re still here, helping out.”

Clint looks at the sheriff curiously, trying to work out if he’s bullshitting or not, but if he is, the mask is flawless. On the other hand, no one could possibly be that earnest about anything.

“You’re a good guy, Robin,” Steve says, patting him on the shoulder. The use of Clint’s fake name stabs right into him and he has to hold back a wince. He feels like laughing, because the guy has no freaking clue how wrong he is. But Clint can’t really explain the error there. He can’t say that he’s not a good guy because he used to work for a carnival that stole large amounts of money from people, and he has a million dollars of stolen cash hidden upstairs in his room, and… well, the less he thinks about the rest of it, the better. He can’t explain just how wrong the sheriff was, so he just says “thanks , I guess” and scratches at a sudden itch on his ear.

The conversation tapers out and the sheriff – Steve – is still standing there, looking at him like he honestly believes Clint is worth something, and Clint has to break the tension, even if he’s the only one who’s feeling it.

“While you’re here,” Clint starts. “There’s this wolf…” Clint’s not sure why that’s what he chooses to go with, but the words are out there now, and he’s got to admit his furry friend is odd. He’s pretty sure that wild animals aren’t supposed to be so tame. As soon as the word ‘wolf’ is out of his mouth, though, the sheriff’s posture changes. He straightens up, his jawline becoming sharper – if that’s even possible. His gaze darts off into the trees as well, and his nostrils flare just a little bit. Clint’s already regretting bringing this up.

“A wolf?” the sheriff asks. His voice is tight, but feigning casualness. Clint knows that voice well. He usually hears it when he’s fucked something up. He might not be good with hearing nuance, but some things are just worn into his brain. Every muscle in his body tenses up.

“Yeah,” he says, keeping his tone nice and easy. “I mean, I see a wolf sometimes. In the forest. I was wondering if I should be worried?” There, that sounds vague and non-threatening. He wants to keep it as vague as possible. The wolf’s done nothing but watch him and eat half of his bacon sandwich, he doesn’t want to set the town on it.

But the sheriff relaxes almost immediately, his smile turning easy once more.

“Oh no, there’s nothing to worry about. The local wildlife’s pretty friendly really, not aggressive at all unless you go after them first. Mostly we respect them and they respect us. Respect is the answer to many problems in life.”

“Right,” Clint says. He’s pretty sure his wolf doesn’t respect him, but he also hasn’t killed Clint yet.

“You might even see a few wandering around town,” the sheriff says. “Just leave them alone and they’ll leave you alone.”

“Right,” Clint repeats, because wild wolves roaming around town isn’t terrifying at all. At the carnival, with the lions, he’d been warned time and again that once a wild animal, always a wild animal. You could never let your guard down.

“It’s fine,” the sheriff says, his face turning more serious. “We haven’t had an incident in over 70 years.”

“Good to know,” Clint says. He’s still going to keep his distance, though.

“So you’re settling in okay?” the sheriff continues.

“Yeah,” Clint answers, and is bewildered to find it is actually the truth. “I mean, not settling in exactly. But it’s a nice town you’ve got here. Good people. They keep…” he looks down at his outfit, “giving me stuff.”

“We help each other out,” Steve says with a smile.

Clint doesn’t say ‘but I’m not one of you’ even though the words are resting right on the tip of his tongue.

“Someone called May gave me a bag full of shirts and trousers,” he says instead.

“Yeah, May’s had it rough,” the sheriff tells him. “She probably gave you Ben’s old things. She’s been trying to clean some stuff out for years, but she never got round to it. You’re helping her out by taking them off her hands.”

“That’s what Sam said too,” Clint replies. “But it kind of seems like it’s the other way round to me.” Steve laughs.

“I guess it might,” he says. “Anyway, I should go earn my keep.” He jerks his thumb back towards the road.

“I’m sure you’ve got a lot of crime to fight,” Clint says.

“You joke, but less than ten minutes ago I stopped a hardened criminal from commiting a crime right in front of me,” Steve says, completely seriously.

“Seriously?”

“Yep, Mrs Underwood, she’s a serial offender.”

“Mrs Underwood?” Clint racks his brains to put a face to the name and comes up with a sly old lady with impeccable make up and a dangerous twinkle in her eye. “How old is she? Ninety? What on earth was she up to?”

“Jaywalking,” Steve tells him. “I’ve told her again and again, but she just keeps at it.”

“Well if that’s the case, I guess you’d better get back to it,” Clint says. “The town clearly needs you.”

“Right you are,” Steve says, and then, honest to god, tips his hat. “Keep up the good work.”

It’s ridiculous and old fashioned, but as the sheriff walks away, his hands tucked into his belt, Clint feels a strange swell of something that could almost be pride in his chest. Like he’s actually happy that the guy is pleased with him.

He shakes the feeling off. He mustn’t get attached. He’s just got to focus on what’s right in front of him – fixing the guesthouse. Barney will come and they’ll be gone before anyone even knows to miss them. The sheriff’s just another in a long line of law enforcement officers that Clint’s lied to.

This town is just another stop.

He mustn’t get attached.

*

It’s been over three weeks since he last shot an arrow.

There’s an itch in his fingers, and when he’s in his room, he finds his eyes straying over to the bow bag, longing to take it out and put it through its paces.

It’s a crime to leave that bow going to waste.

He’s been ignoring the feeling for days, weeks maybe, when it finally comes to a head. Sam tells him to take a day off because he deserves one or something, and that leave Clint at a loose end.

So he takes the risk.

He grabs the bag with his archery equipment in and heads out, slipping into the forest rather than going along the roads, because he doesn’t want anyone asking questions about this, and he doesn’t want to be interrupted. If anything’s going to give him away, it’s this bow. Jacques knows he would never sell the thing. They know he’s sentimental about it. And if they find out where his bow is, they find him.

He shouldn’t be out here at all, really. It’s too much of a risk. It’s too close to Clint Barton and not close enough to Robin Pevensie.

But he can’t stop that ache in his chest for the clarity of hitting the target, the repetition and the sheer joy of it. He never feels the same as when he’s got a bow in his hand. Archery is what he’s supposed to do. It’s what he’s good at.

So Clint hikes into the wood, leaving a trail of cuts on the trees so he can find his way back more easily, and every step further from the town he gets, away from Robin Pevensie and back to being Clint Barton, the Amazing Hawkeye, he feels a little lighter.

Finally he finds a clearing that will work, and a tree that’s far enough away from it to make it interesting.

His hands stroke over the bow as he pulls it out, soft and gentle, feeling the curves of it.

Then he stands, takes position, and begins.

He shoots arrow after arrow, lets them loose to fly straight and true through the trees to find the exact spot he intends.

It’s a little piece of the world he can control utterly, and he feels like he’s floating with it, like the world just drops away from him and everything is simple. There’s the breath of wind, the pull of the string, the weight of the bow in his other hand, the touch of his fingertips against his cheek, and the tree he’s aiming at. He adjusts his aim slightly and releases the string as gently as the touch of a butterfly’s wing, exhaling with it, letting out his breath along with the arrow.

When he hears the growl, Clint freezes. He’s alone in the woods, and he knows there’s something out there. Not all wolves will be as relaxed as his three-legged friend, and he’s seen other shapes in the dark sometimes, when he looks out of his window. Huge dark shapes that looks so much bigger than anything should be. No matter what the sheriff might say about whether the local wildlife is dangerous, Clint’s not going to trust in the benevolence of nature.

His gaze darts from tree to tree stopping on a potentially threatening bush before moving away again. Slowly, he spins in a circle, pulling an arrow from his quiver and nocking it. He’d just been looking for a way to keep in practice, maybe a little relaxation doing something that he’s actually good at, with no one around that he has to be ‘Robin Pevensie’ for. Apparently that’s not what nature thinks, though. Maybe it’s mad because of all the holes he’s put in the trees.

Clint hasn’t often used his archery skills for anything other than entertaining the masses, but he knows that he’ll make the shot if he gets a chance. It’s getting the chance that worries him.

Another growl rumbles around the woods, and Clint spins in that direction – what he thinks is that direction anyway. He raises his bow, eyes peering through the foliage, looking for the shape of any creature that might have caused the sound.

He hadn’t _felt_ like he was being stalked, but would he? Maybe he’s become so accustomed to the feeling of eyes on him that he hadn’t noticed. His paranoia is at an all-time high. Perhaps he’s just made himself immune to it. Or maybe he’s not as observant as he likes to think.

_There_.

Through the trees, in the direction of the growling, a flash of something furry.

Clint knows wolves hunt as a pack. He knows that they chase down their prey. Since he met his new friend, he’s done his research. There are a surprisingly large number of books in the local library about wolves. It hadn’t even been difficult, although the librarian had given him a strangely suspicious look when he saw what Clint was reading.

They hunt as a pack, though. So where there’s one, there’s likely more – even if a quick sweep through the trees shows no more sign. And running is the worst possible option.

If Clint can’t run away, then he supposes his next option is to do the exact opposite.

He keeps the arrow nocked as he approaches, because he’s not a complete idiot – well… he supposes he can check back on that in a few minutes.

Another growl comes as he makes his way through the undergrowth. He doesn’t try to be stealthy, but steps carefully over branches that seem to be lying in wait to trip him up. As the layers of greenery obstructing his view are removed, the wolf emerges, piece by piece. He recognises it, large and black, so much bigger than he’d ever thought wolves could be before he came to Timely. It’s snarling loudly and angrily, and it’s stuck.

Clint straightens, lowering his bow, and the wolf’s head snaps to him, displaying its pointy, unwelcoming teeth with a vicious snarl. Clint gulps. Before, it has always been calm and placid. He’s never seen it like this. He is reminded all of a sudden that this is not his friend. This is a wild animal trapped and in pain, willing to lash out at anyone. But, apart from its head, it doesn’t move – probably because its back leg is caught in the angry iron jaws of a bear trap. Red blood runs down the dull metal.

Clint puts down his bow and returns the arrow to his quiver. Every move is slow and the wolf watches him cautiously as Clint holds his hands up to try to seem unthreatening.

He really should have paid more attention to the lion tamer’s drunken ramblings. His knowledge of large, murderous animals is kind of lacking, most specifically, how to approach them without dying a horrific, painful death. That was an oversight on his part. He’s always kept his distance before, but it looks like that’s not going to be an option this time.

“Hey,” he tries, keeping his voice as gentle as possible. He’s got to at least try to help it. “What do you say I get you out of there and you don’t rip my throat out? Sound good?”

He’s not expecting an answer, but the wolf cocks its head to one side and then moves, pulling the rest of its body away from its captured limb.

It moves with a curious, jumping gait, and Clint remembers its missing front leg.

“Guess this isn’t your first time, huh?” Clint asks, approaching even closer, inch by inch. “That sucks.”

The wolf huffs a little, as though it’s agreeing with what Clint’s saying.

“Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure you’ll keep this one,” he says. “I hope so at least. I’m no vet, but…” he trails off and crouches down, expecting the wolf’s head to snap around at any moment, jaws gaping, but nothing happens, and the only sounds are the wolf’s heavy breaths and the birds whistling to each other in the trees.

Clint gradually lowers himself to his knees and reaches out a tentative hand.

Right. He’s totally taking back that thought from earlier. He _is_ a complete idiot. But he can at least take comfort in the fact that it won’t be for long. In a second he’s going to be down a hand and passing out from blood loss.

He casts a quick look at the wolf’s head, which could definitely swallow his entire hand in one mouthful. He’s never been this close before – not while sober anyway – never realised how huge the wolf really is. It could probably bite off his entire lower arm. Awesome.

Clint looks at the wolf and the wolf looks back at him with sad grey eyes. It’s now or never, and he can’t exactly just leave it here.

Clint lowers his hand.

The wolf’s fur is warm and coarse, but thick and dense. Clint’s hand is almost buried from view as it sinks down to rest on trembling muscles.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Clint says.  Wolves are like dogs, right? So just treat it like a giant, murderous dog. It’s been working so far.

He strokes over the wolf’s trembling back with one hand, while the other drops down to examine the trap. As soon as he touches the metal, the wolf lets out a pained whine. Clint shushes it gently.

“Shit, this looks bad,” he says under his breath, and suddenly the wolf’s twisting under him, trying to look. “No, hey, no,” he says. The wolf continues twisting, pulling the leg against the metal in a way that makes more blood start to drip out. “You’re hurting yourself. Stop.” The wolf freezes as he strokes it again. “Good boy. Gotta get you out of here. You’re making it worse when you move. Stay still.”

The wolf growls again.

“Look,” Clint says, talking to the wolf as though it understands him. “You’re gonna need to stay still if you want me to get you out of here.” Another huff comes, but the wolf does stay still. “Good boy.”

There’s a blood curdling growl, which freezes Clint in place.

“OK, gottit,” he says. “You’re not a dog. Sorry.” He leans even further down towards the trap. There’s a metal taste on the air and he can’t tell if it’s the trap or the blood.

Clint’s good with working things out, practical things anyway. Give him a computer and he’s got no idea, but something like this, something where you can see all the working parts and see how they connect to each other, that’s something he can do.

The wolf lies so still it might have been dead if Clint couldn’t still hear its heavy breathing and the occasional whine of pain that seems to be forced out of its mouth.

Gently, he reaches for the metal of the trap. It looks like there are some levers to either side of the vicious metal teeth. He might be able to pull them far enough open for the wolf to pull its leg out.

“I know you can’t understand me,” he says to the wolf, keeping his voice low, soothing and steady, “but I think I can open it enough for you to pull your leg out. It’s probably going to hurt like a bitch, though.” The wolf lets out another whine. “Alright buddy. I’m working on it.”

He pulls his hand away from the wolf’s fur and grasps hard at the metal levers, drawing in a deep breath before he _pulls_.

At first it seems like nothing’s going to happen, but when he brings a foot up, to hold the trap steady and push against, there is a horrible scream of metal against metal, and then something gives, just a little bit.

Clint watches as the jaws separate. His arms straining with the force, his teeth gritted. Just a little more.

Just.

A.

Bit.

One extra burst of energy and the jaws pull apart another few millimetres, just enough for the wolf to jerk its leg out. Clint waits for it to be completely clear before he lets go, and the jaws snap together with a clang.

He sits back on his ass, breathing just as loudly as the wolf.

Over the trap, he and the wolf stare at each other.

The wolf stands, listing wobbily from one side to another, its two good legs not balanced enough to stabilise it. It gingerly puts weight on its injured paw, then pulls it back up again with a whimper. It tries again and manages for a handful of seconds before the leg collapses, taking the rest of the wolf with it.

Clint approaches again – knowing he should leave well enough alone. It’s a miracle he’s survived this unharmed so far. But how is a wolf going to survive with two busted legs?

As he comes closer, the wolf pulls itself back up again, lasting barely three seconds before it falls back down. It tries again.

Maybe it’s the creature’s stubbornness that Clint’s drawn to – the stubborn refusal of failure. He knows that too well.

“I know,” he says to the wolf. “I get it. You need to prove you can do it – but you’re hurt. Everyone’s allowed a rest now and again, you know.” The wolf, honest to god, glares at him. “I’m not gonna hurt you. There’s a vet in town. Actually there are three vets and one doctor, which seems odd, but I guess there are a lot of farmers or something. How about I take you to the vet and they’ll fix you right up?”

Or, maybe – as Barney’s been telling him for years – Clint’s just a sucker for a sob story. It’s why he needs Barney: to keep him from being taken for a ride by anyone who bats their eyelashes at him.

But Barney’s not here, and Clint’s not gonna let this guy die in the woods.

Of course, that poses its own problems. He can’t go back into town with a bow and arrow in plain view. He’s meant to be keeping a low profile, and if Jacques hears about a guy out hunting with a bow and arrow in the area he’s bound to check it out at least.

Clint unbuckles the quiver and hides it and the bow under a bush, making sure he can find them later.

“You don’t tell anyone about these, alright?” he says to the wolf. It looks steadily back at him with an expression that Clint takes to mean ‘I’m a wolf, who would I tell?’ “Seriously,” he says, looking at his bag carefully. He could probably make it into something that was almost a sling. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

The wolf considers him for a moment, then whines. Clint shakes his head. He’s having conversations with animals now. He’s officially past the point of no return now he’s imagining that a wolf can understand him _and reply_.

Clint’s got muscles – years of performing with a carnival will do that for you – but even he can’t dead lift 200 pounds of solid wolf muscle. The thing’s huge. But it can’t walk on its own.

He considers the matter for a few seconds, then returns to the bush where he hid his stuff and tips everything out of the bag as gently as possible, hiding it again, but keeping the bag out.

The wolf, still slumped on the ground, looks at him.

“Seeing as how I can’t carry you–” Clint says “–and you can’t walk without a little help. I’ve got an idea.” He lays the empty bag out, straps outspread. “I can hold onto the straps and keep you upright. This way neither one of us has to support all your weight. It’s like a seeing-eye dog – only I’ll be a walking leg human or something. Fuck. Why am I saying this? You don’t understand a word I’m saying. Just…” He rocks back until he’s crouching on his heels. “Guess I’m gonna have to carry you a little way, huh?”

The carnival has a strong man. His name is Marcus and he can deadlift Clint in full gear with one arm, and support him over his head. That was actually a part of the act at one point. The crowd had gone wild.

There’s a reason that Clint was the one shooting the arrows in that partnership. But Marcus had imparted some knowledge to him along the way.

Lifting 200 pounds of unhappy wolf without being bitten or hurting its leg is not easy. Luckily, he only needs to lug the wolf a couple of feet (why didn’t he put the bag closer to the wolf? Too late to worry about that now) and Wolfy McWolfson seems a lot more compliant than Clint thinks is probably normal. Maybe he just likes how Clint smells, his nose does come worryingly close to Clint’s neck at one point, almost resting on his shoulder before it’s jerked away and the wolf huffs.

It takes some shuffling of legs and bag handles, but eventually Clint manages to rig it so that the body of the bag is under the body of the wolf – upside down so the sipper doesn’t rub – and the handles are between its legs on either side, so Clint can pull them up and hold them.

The wolf manages to stand, Clint supporting its weight with the bag. Clint looks down at the wolf. The wolf looks up at him, and Clint can’t quite hold back a laugh, though it’s interrupted by a growl.

“Sorry… sorry. It’s just… You’re kind of like one of those Chihuahuas, riding around in a purse. Just bigger… and less classy” There’s another growl. “Fine, you’re plenty classy. But I don’t get what you’re so annoyed about; you can’t even understand what I’m saying.”

They make it to town, Clint walking his unconventional dog-in-a-bag, the wolf limping and trying to seem like it’s above all this, and together they find the vet surgery. Clint’s actually surprised that no one really looks at them funny on the way, like this is a perfectly normal thing to see walking down Main Street.

Any worries Clint might have been having about the vet not treating wolves fly out the window as soon as they walk in the door.

“Oh my god! What happened?” A slight, brown-haired woman says, hurrying towards them. She’s wearing scrubs.

“Bear trap,” Clint says, although she seems to be addressing the wolf more than him. Guess he’s not the only one who talks to animals around here. That makes him feel a little better.

“Ugh,” she purses her lips, her eyebrows falling into an angry line. “Must be left over from the hunters who passed through town last year. Bastards.” Before Clint can agree with her, she calls out for some help and, between her and the other woman who appears, they hustle the wolf onto a trolley and through a door. Clint is effectively blocked from following by the same woman who greeted them. She’s tiny, but somehow seems to take up much more space than she should.

“Thank you, Mr Pevensie. We can take it from here.”

“You know who I am?” Clint asks, blinking.

“It’s a small town,” she says. Clint knew that, sure, but he keeps forgetting. He can feel a spot on his back start to itch as the urge to run away hits again.

“Right. Of course,” he agrees. “So you know where to find me for the bill.” He thinks of the bag of money under the floorboards at the guesthouse.

“That won’t be necessary,” she says, smiling a bit more genuinely. “The bill is already taken care of.”

Clint stares.

“Good. Okay. How?” he asks, trying to get his head around the idea that someone has already paid for the treatment for a wolf.

“There’s a system in place,” she tells him, with the air of someone politely _not_ telling someone to leave.

“For when wolves get caught in bear traps?”

“Something like that.” She waits, her eyebrows raised. “For injured local wildlife. We’re a very environmentally friendly town.”

“I’ll just… go then, shall I?” Clint watches the relief trickle across her face. She really wants him out of there.

“Thank you for taking the time to help,” she says. “Few people would.”

“Couldn’t just leave it there,” Clint says. “Let me know how it is?”

“I’ll make sure you know how _he’s_ doing,” she says. Oh, right. Boy wolf then. Cool. Clint never looked, felt too weird. But it’s very clear that he is not wanted here, and as much as Clint likes getting in the way and pissing people off, he doesn’t want to distract them while his wolf-friend is in danger. He should be going, then.

Clint backs out of the building, feeling a little lost, and almost walks into Deputy Natasha as he does so.

“Hi Robin,” she says, looking amused as he startles away from her. “I didn’t know you had a pet.”

“I don’t,” he says. She pauses, then looks at the door to the vet surgery behind him, then up at the sign that says ‘veterinarian’ in carefully painted letters.

“Lost?” she asks sweetly, her mouth curving into the hint of an amused grin. He likes her, they get on well enough, but he always feels like she’s trying to catch him out. The deputy thing doesn’t really help, either. He racks his brain to think of an answer, then realises that he has no reason to hide this from anyone. He can be 100% honest about this. His shoulders slump a little in relief. He’s getting a bit tangled in the lies.

“Some bastard left a bear trap in the woods,” he says. “Found a wolf caught in it, brought him in to the doc to get seen to.”

Clint’s pretty good at reading people. Well, he’s good at knowing when people are scared. For a second there’s a shimmer of fear across Deputy Natasha’s face, but she hides it quickly.

“A wolf?” she asks.

“Yeah, big one,” he says. “Huge one, dark fur.”

“Was he badly hurt?” she asks. She seems nonchalant and maybe, if he hadn’t caught that slight glimmer of fear before, he would have believed it, but her eyes – just once – dart to look through the glass behind him.

“I don’t think it’s too serious,” he says.

“Any idea…” she pauses, then frowns and starts again. “Any distinguishing features?” she asks. “We have a few wolves in the area. Most of the locals know them on sight.”

That’s slightly different from what the sheriff told him.

“Three legs,” Clint says. “One unlucky wolf, I guess.”

“Very unlucky,” Natasha agrees, frowning. “I’ll go and see what Jane and Helen have to say about it,” she steps past Clint towards the door, before pausing in the doorway and turning back to him, biting her lip slightly. “Good work.”

Clint stands awkwardly in the street after she disappears into the building.

He wants to stick around to find out if the wolf’s okay, but it’s clear he’s not wanted there.

He stares at the door for a long minute before shaking his head. It’s only a wolf. He can come back and ask about it later. Clint’s sure he’ll be fine.

And anyway, Clint’s got to go get his stuff. He’s done his good deed for the day. He doesn’t need to wait here like he’s the next of kin or whatever. It’s only a wolf and he has to go pick up his bow. The wolf’s in good hands, his bow is under a bush. Sticking around would be pointless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky, in wolf-shape, is caught in a bear trap left there deliberately by werewolf hunters who passed through the town previously. Clint gets him out of the trap and takes him to the vets in town. to avoid it, skip from when Clint goes out to the forest to practise his archery to the end of the chapter.


	4. Coyote Hungry

Bucky was lucky. He _knows_ he was lucky. That part of the woods isn’t a part of the pack’s normal patrols. He could have been stuck in that trap far longer. Even if he had howled and called to the pack for help, they wouldn’t have arrived immediately. There’s every chance it might have permanently damaged his leg, or infected it beyond recovery.

He could have lost another limb, and isn’t that a sobering thought.

But Pevensie had got him out. He hadn’t balked at the idea of coming that close to a fully grown wolf, even one he sort of knew. He’d looked at the trap and got him out.

For a moment, seeing him with the bow in his hand, Bucky had thought that he’d been right all along: the man was a hunter, he’d set the trap himself, and now he was there to finish the job.

But then Robin had helped him out, quickly and simply, talking to him like he was a person, and calming him down with gentle hands. He hadn’t just left him in the woods to fend for himself, either. He had taken Bucky to Helen and Jane before it was too late. And so Bucky had kept his leg.

It’s infuriating, that’s what it is, because now Bucky’s got to admit that maybe, in spite of everything, it’s not Robin that’s the problem. He’s running from something, that’s true, but that doesn’t make him a bad person.

Maybe Bucky has to give him a chance.

*

It’s not been Clint’s favourite day.

Somehow the work on the porch seems to take longer and be more boring without the wolf to talk to.

He’s checked with Dr Cho at the vet, and she says he’s doing well, but for obvious reasons, he’s not very mobile. When Clint asked to see him, he was told that it was better to keep visitors to a minimum. So there’s that.

Then it starts raining mid-afternoon, soaks him to the skin in seconds so his shirt is plastered to his back and his hair, which has grown too long, is sticking to his forehead in dark smears, dribbling rivulets of water all down his face until it drips off his chin.

Clint really hopes the bar is open tonight. He is in dire need of a drink.

He hauls the tarpaulin over the wood quickly, before that gets soaked as well, and gives up the day as a lost cause.

He ends up sitting on the edge of the part he’s already fixed, staring into the woods, drenched through. He stays like that a while before Sam comes out.

“You know we’ve got showers inside, right?” Sam asks, staying safely inside the door. “You okay?” he asks after Clint doesn’t reply.

“Yep. I’m good,” Clint says. On days like this, he and Barney used to hide in their caravan, playing stupid games they made up. Well, before Barney got too cool for all of that. It had been nice, hearing the rain drilling down on the metal roof and battering against the windows, but being safe inside, huddled in a blanket, laughing at the stupid things they made each other do.

But that was a long time ago.

Clint pulls himself to his feet, and turns around. A waterfall pours off him as he does so, pooling around his feet. They both look down at it for a second before Sam holds out a towel with an amused smile, and Clint steps under the little roof to take it gratefully, scrubbing it over his head.

“There’s coffee inside,” Sam says, and Clint can’t help smiling at that.

“Sounds good.”

“Have you already eaten the sandwich I made, or do you want something else?” Sam says over his shoulder as Clint squelches into the kitchen behind him.  Clint frowns at the back of his head, because Sam hadn’t made him a sandwich today. There hadn’t been one on the windowsill like there sometimes was. Clint just figured that he’d forgotten, and he probably had, but there’s no need to make the guy feel bad. He shrugs, which Sam takes as a prompt to get the cookie jar out.

They have some cookies with the coffee as Clint dries out, and then he helps with odd jobs around the guesthouse. They’ve had a few people passing through for one night only, and the rooms need cleaning, and it’s not like Clint can keep up his end of the bargain while it’s coming down in buckets outside.

They wait until Natasha gets in from her shift before they head out to the bar.

When they walk through the door, there's something different about the place. It takes him a second, but Clint blinks in surprise when he realises it's Thor behind the bar alone, no Bucky in sight. He gives the room a quick once over, just to make sure he hasn’t ventured out from his usual spot, but there’s no sign of him.

“He’s sick,” Sam says, frowning a little.

“Who’s sick?” Clint asks quickly, but Sam and Natasha’s flat stares tell him that ruse isn’t going to work. “Oh, him,” Clint says, as nonchalantly as he can manage “Well, it’ll be nice to drink without having to worry about him boring holes in my head with his glaring.” They don’t look convinced.

It’s not the same, though. Don’t get him wrong, Thor’s great. He’s a one man party and he serves them their drinks with jovial felicitations. Being served by Thor is always an experience, but Clint misses the witty repartee.

Maybe that’s a bit too kind. He misses the deadpan snarking that Bucky deals out as easily as he pours drinks. There’s a rhythm to it, and maybe Clint wishes he could get a bit more of that and a little less of the dead-eyed suspicion. He’s been working on it. Although it's not that bad. He's got to the point now where it just isn’t a good night if he hasn’t been insulted at least twice.

It’s a let-down when he’s been waiting for this all day.

Steve is missing too – helping Bucky out, Natasha explains, so there isn’t even a decent pool opponent to be found.

“Ah yes!” Thor says as he approaches. “I heard of what you did, yesterday.” He nods, looking at Clint like he’s some sort of hero. “Your actions were noble.”

“Not really,” Clint says quickly, as he sees eyes turning towards him from further up the bar.

“Don’t be modest,” Thor tells him. “Sif! Get the man a drink.”

Clint opens his mouth to protest, but a free drink is a free drink, and Thor seems happy enough to give it to him.

Another beer is pushed in front of him by a dark-haired woman who seems to be covering for Bucky.

“On the house,” she says, with a smile, rolling her eyes as Thor begins a tirade against the evils of bear traps. By the time he’s finished, Thor has half the bar’s patrons agreeing to help scour the nearby woods for more of them.

Natasha watches him for a second, then pushes his drink closer to him.

 “Drink up,” she says, seeming to sense that Clint does not want to discuss yesterday’s actions any further. “Bucky’s not here, so Thor’s going to make it karaoke night. He always makes it karaoke night when Bucky’s not here. I want you drunk enough to sing.” She grins at him wickedly and winks.

She succeeds in her quest. Clint’s not got a great voice, it’s a bit scratchy and it’s 50-50 whether he hits the right notes, but he and Sam manage to make it through a rendition of _Livin’ on a Prayer_ that has some other people joining in. Clint tries to stand on a table at one point, but is pulled off by Thor with one arm and carefully lowered back to the ground.

It’s a better evening than it has any right to be, but it still feels wrong.

He expresses this thought to Nat and Sam as they make their way back home, he and Sam lurching from side to side in a drunken three-legged race. It’s too bad that Bucky is sick. He shouldn’t be sick. Clint wonders aloud if he should get Bucky a get well soon card.

“Yes!” Sam says too loudly, hushed by Natasha quickly. “Do that!” he whispers, almost as loudly. “You have to do that! Oh man. I can picture the look on his face.” Then Sam dissolves into a fit of giggles.

“Maybe if I send him a card,” Clint says, working through the logic in his head. “He won’t hate me.”

Sam is too busy laughing to hear Clint ponder this out loud. Although Clint’s pretty sure it’s a stupid idea anyway.

*

When Clint sits down for breakfast in the morning, he feels like death warmed up. Natasha’s plan to get him drunk enough to sing has resulted in the hangover from hell. And she’s lucky she’s already left for work this morning, because Clint is plotting terrible revenge – just as soon as his head stops spinning. Irritatingly, Sam seems fresh as a daisy when he delivers Clint’s plate, piled high with eggs and bacon. He’s grinning broadly, little shit.

There’s another couple in the little dining room and apparently Clint’s hearing doesn’t want to play nice and help out his headache by pressing mute, because he can hear them talking to each other and the man’s voice is really cutting through him.

They’re complaining about their picnic the day before to Sam as he pours out their coffees.

“Stolen right off the table,” the man’s saying. “The cheek of the thing.”

Clint decides to skip the mug and just drink his coffee straight out of the carafe. He knows he’s getting judgy looks from the paying guests, but he just grins pleasantly at them. He’s too freaking hung over for mugs.

It’s reassuring to see people look at him like that anyway. There’s that little cringe on their faces that tells him he’s still got that carnie magic: making snooty people’s faces scrunch up like they stepped in dog shit. Everyone in Timely is way too nice to him – except for Bucky – Clint knows he’s a tire fire.

Aw, bacon.

He watches in slow motion as the rasher slides off his fork and onto his pants, and looks down at it in dismay. He stares for a long second before shrugging and grabbing it with his fingers and shoving it into his mouth.

Of course, there’s now a dark grease stain on the front of his pants.

He rubs at it absently with his fingers, forgetting they’re greasy as well and well… that looks bad.

All the napkin does after that is smear the grease around some more. He looks up for something that might help, but the only liquids nearby are coffee and orange juice. Neither of them is going to help very much, so he sighs and resigns himself to his stained pants and tire fire of an existence.

Across the room, the paying guests are still telling Sam all about the terrible local wildlife that stole their picnic, and Sam is nodding along and reassuring them that they are quite safe in Timely. Clint is very restrained and does not mention the wolf invasion that no one seems to want to talk about. He even suggests methods for looking after their stuff, most of which amount to keeping an eye on it, but he manages to say it in a way that makes them actually thank him.

Clint is impressed.

He’s so impressed that he forgets about the stain over his crotch right up to when he gets out of his seat and crosses over to the door and hears a gasp. The couple are looking at him, eyes flickering down to the front of his pants in horror. Sam’s eyebrows are creeping up his head.

Clint gives them his brightest, most dazzling show smile.

“That was really good bacon,” he says, licking his fingers, and walks out of the room to get back to work.

*

The feeling of being watched is something Clint’s pretty much grown used to. It’s been with him ever since he arrived in this town. No, that’s a lie, it’s been with him ever since he high-tailed it away from the carnival with a bag full of money and the knowledge that he had found a line he couldn’t cross.

But today – today his mind is playing tricks on him. He’s fixing the steps down into the back garden of the guesthouse. The old ones are full of woodworm and it’s a miracle no one’s put their foot through them yet… well, apart from him.

There’s a breeze in the air, making the trees move. When it buffets them hard enough, he can even hear the hissing rustle of them, but other than that, it’s a quiet day. Few noises make it through to him. The odd sound of a person from the sidewalk calling out, maybe a car engine, but that’s it – just him and the steps.

And his thoughts as the trees watch him.

At first he does wonder if it’s the three-legged wolf, but then he realises that it can’t be his wolf-friend – he thinks they can consider each other friends after the whole trap thing – because wherever he is, he’s not walking around town any time soon. Then he thinks that it must just be paranoia, so he ignores the feeling as he continues to saw the wood for the steps, getting into the rhythm of it and ignoring the rough handle rubbing blisters into his hands.

He does hear the sound of water being lapped up eagerly, though, a few moments later, and that makes him freeze. Because if there is no way the three-legged wolf is watching him today, then what the hell is drinking the water from the bowl?

Clint stretches his arms over his head, as casually as he can, feeling the joints pop and the muscles protest. The hard work keeps him active, but it’s not as varied as practising his routines used to be. He stays in one position too long and his back is not a huge fan.

To get the kinks out, he does some stretches most days, a back walkover or two, a careless cartwheel, nothing fancy, just something to loosen him up.

But not today, because today something is watching him.

He turns around slowly, twisting his torso as if stretching out his arms.

And he comes face to face with what looks like… a small wolf?

No, a coyote, he remembers the picture in the reference books.

Clint stares at it; it stares back. Its eyes and coat are silver, which he doesn’t remember from the book, but he guesses if people can have different coloured hair and cats and dogs can have different coloured fur, then why not a coyote.

In its mouth is the sandwich Clint made himself for lunch. He gapes at it for a long moment before he processes it enough to react.

“That’s mine!” He lunges for the sandwich, but the coyote blinks once, then, in a blur of silver fur, it darts away, disappearing into the woods.

Clint stops, takes a deep breath, then slumps.

He’d really been looking forward to that sandwich.

*

Later that evening, Clint’s still having a disappointing sort of a day. It’s not like the bar’s always noisy – sure, once Thor and his guys get going it can turn into a rager – but most nights it’s actually quite chill. So there’s nothing different tonight from any other night. They’ve even stopped doing the ‘Bucky’s not here, let’s have karaoke’ after that first night, like the novelty wore off.

So why does Clint feel like it’s empty.

Thor pours him another beer and settles on the other side of the bar from him.

“What makes you so morose, my friend?” he asks. Clint shrugs, unable to put it into words. There’s just a weird unsettled feeling all around him. It’s a bit like being stir-crazy, but with less energy. “You don’t want to join Natasha and Sam tonight? I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

“I get in their way enough back at the guesthouse,” Clint says, fiddling with a beermat, throwing it up and catching it between the backs of his fingers. “They need a night off.”

The two of them are huddled in a corner, talking avidly. Natasha’s even laughing, and Clint has the idea that the pair of them maybe used to have more date nights before Clint started tagging along with them everywhere.

“When’s Barnes coming back?” he asks, and he absolutely does not sound like a whiny child.

“Ah, I’m not good enough for you,” Thor says.

“No, it’s not that, I just... he brings a certain ambience to the place,” Clint says quickly. “Really brings out the...”

“Don’t worry, my friend. I understand what you mean. The heart wants what the heart wants.”

“The what now?” Clint asks, straightening up to look at him. Thor leans over, winking with a conspiratorial smile.

“No fear, your secret is safe with me. I shall tell Bucky you were asking after him!”

“No!” Clint starts, but Thor is already walking away. “That’s the opposite of keeping my secret safe. Not that there even is a secret. What the fuck, dude?”

At least Thor gave him another drink before he went, even if he is delusional.

Bucky Barnes has absolutely nothing to do with Clint’s heart.

Because that would be stupid.

Even if he’s a pretty asshole, he’s still an asshole.

Which would actually make them pretty well matched, a sly little bit of Clint’s mind whispers.

Fuck Thor, anyway. What does he even know?

*

Life doesn’t get much better after that, either. That’s the third time this week his lunch has gone missing, right from under his nose. Clint is going to find that damn coyote and skin it alive.

He walks back into the guesthouse kitchen to find Sam putting his cleaning stuff away.

“You OK?” Sam asks. “You’re looking a little angry.”

“Damn coyote stole my lunch again,” Clint says with feeling and Sam goes still. Unnaturally still, like a Sam statue just appeared at the table. Then he props the mop up against the wall and turns to Clint. He’s trying to be nonchalant, but Clint knows that expression well from practising in the mirror: ‘no officer, I have no idea how that came to be there. How strange.”

“Coyote?” Sam asks. His tone’s light, but it’s put on. Ah well, if that’s how Sam wants to play this, then that’s how Clint will respond.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Caught it at it a few days ago,” he responds with a shrug. “Today I even made 2 lunches – one for it, one for me. Quick little bastard took ‘em both and I didn’t even see it.”

“You’re sure it was a coyote?” Sam asks. “They’re not very common around here.” Clint’s not sure what that’s got to do with anything, but he guesses maybe Sam thinks it was one of the local wolves, or someone’s dog gone exploring.

“I mean, I’m not sure, but it was too small for a wolf and it didn’t look like a dog. You think that’s a problem?”

“If it’s bold enough to steal when you’re right there, then maybe” Sam says. “They can be dangerous. I hope there aren’t more nearby.”

“I only saw it the once,” Clint replies. “And it’s just taking my lunch. I mean, that three-legged wolf of yours is more daring than that.”

“He’s fine,” Sam says, shaking his head. “I mean, he’s an idiot, but he’s fine. It’s just… it’s best if they don’t get used to coming to you for food. If they do, then next time you don’t have food, they might not be too happy.”

“I guess I can see that,” Clint says with a nod. “It’s a sneaky little thief, anyway. It knows what it’s doing.” Sam frowns and pulls out his phone.

“Just let me know the next time you see it, okay?”

“Sure,” Clint agrees. It doesn’t sound like a bad idea, and what does he know about dealing with wild animals?

“Thanks,” Sam says, starting to walk away to do whatever it is he does all day while Clint’s in the background playing with a nail gun.

“That was a weird conversation,” he says to the coffee pot. It doesn’t reply, which is definitely for the best.

*

The next day, Clint’s taking a rest, stepping back to look at his work, and waiting for the coyote to show up again, when the huge dark shape of his wolf limps up to stand next to him. As he looks down at it and it looks up at him, he can’t help the smile that breaks out across his face. It looks good, healthy even. There’s a slight limp, but he supposes that’s to be expected.

“I think it looks alright,” he says, turning back to the porch There’s no response from the wolf, but he wasn’t really expecting one. He glances at it out of the corner of his eye. “Hope your leg’s feeling better.”

The wolf just looks at him again.

“Cool. And if you see a coyote then… well, it’s been stealing my lunch, so I guess it’s hungry. But keep an eye out, okay?”

The wolf growls, low and serious.

“I don’t mean attack it or anything,” Clint says quickly, though the wolf cannot possibly know what he’s saying. “Just… let me know if you see it?” The wolf flicks its head and looks away, and Clint reasons that that’s as good an answer as he’s likely to get. “You understand every word I say, don’t you?” he says, and the wolf turns back to look him in the eye. It has a very good blank expression. “Are all wolves as smart as you?”

He knows better than to pet wild animals, he does, he really does. Learnt that the time he didn’t listen when Barney told him that the possum wasn’t a pet. He’s still got a half-moon of little white scars on his hand from where its teeth had latched on. But his hand’s itching to scratch the wolf’s head. He reaches out a hand, slowly, ever so slowly. It’s a terrible fucking idea, but it’s been a long time since Clint’s touched anything living with any sort of gentleness, and he finds there’s an ache in him for that closeness that he’s missing.

Tentatively, he drops his hand onto the wolf’s head. The fur’s as soft and thick as he remembers it being. Clint’s brain is screaming at him that this is a terrible idea, but the wolf doesn’t growl again. It even relaxes slightly as Clint pets at his fur.

“You’re good company, you know that?” Clint says. “I always wanted a dog when I was a kid.” The wolf twists round to look at him sharply. Yeah, it definitely understands the word ‘dog’. Clint pulls his hand back fast, in case it feels like getting bitey. “I know, I know. Not a dog. Just – it’s nice to have a friend to talk to. My Dad would never let me have one. But that’s for the best.” The wolf pushes its head back into Clint’s palm and he returns to petting it. “You don’t let a guy like that near a helpless animal.” He rubs his forehead with his other hand and sighs.

“I should get back to it.”

The wolf follows him over and lies down in the grass near where he’s working.

Clint keeps up a bit of a conversation while he works. Well, more of a monologue, as the only responses he gets are huffs and the occasional rumble or snarl. He’s been pitting the Justice League against each other out loud for about the last hour when his friend seems to take exception to his decision that Aquaman could beat Batman. “Don’t be such a hater. He has sharks.” The wolf continues growling. “I know, I know, shark repellent bat spray, but that’s not a thing!” Clint throws his hands up, spattering wood stain everywhere. Clint frowns, trying to remember as he realises the growl is still going on, and he thinks it maybe sounds deeper than usual, more dangerous. Clint looks over to see the wolf on its feet, swaying slightly, its head down, its lips drawn back.

“Hey, what’s–?” he follows the wolf’s angry glare and in the corner of the garden, just on the edge of the woods, is the coyote. Fuck.

On one hand, Clint’s pretty sure the wolf could take the coyote, but it’s not really bothering anyone. On the other hand, the wolf is still unsteady on his feet. He’s healing well, but still a fight is a bad idea. Clint would really prefer it if no one got hurt.

“Relax,” he says, in his calmest voice. “It’s okay. He’s just hungry.”

The wolf growls again, lower still, so low that Clint can barely hear it. The coyote’s still just standing there, braced to run.

“Hi,” Clint calls to it. The coyote’s ears twitch towards him although his eyes remain glued to the wolf. Clint grabs the second sandwich he made – specifically for this moment – and holds it up. “this is what you’re here for, right?” The coyote nose wrinkles. “Yeah, I made an extra one just for you.”

The wolf barks at him and lurches towards him as Clint steps forward, obviously not a fan of that plan. Clint gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile, but fuck if he knows wolf body language. He hasn’t exactly got a tail to wag.

He swings the sandwich underarm so it lands at the coyote’s feet. The coyote’s gaze flickers then, between Clint and the wolf. Then it barks, grabs the sandwich and leaps back into the forest, a flash of silver between the trees.

The wolf lunges forwards, too slow to catch it, managing to make it almost to the tree line before his injured leg crumples beneath him and he collapses with a bitter whine.

“Hey,” Clint says, slowly drawing closer. “It’s okay. It’s only a sandwich. I made another one.”

He pats the wolf’s back cautiously and then more firmly when he feels it shaking under him.

“Hope you didn’t hurt yourself more,” he mutters, but the wolf struggles back to its feet, limping even more now, and stubbornly sits itself back down where it was, clearly waiting for Clint to return to work. “I should get the vet,” he says, turning to head into the house, where Sam will have the right number to call.

But by the time he and Sam get back out onto the porch, the wolf is gone.


	5. The Game's Afoot

Bucky hates the lampshade in Steve and Tony’s living room. It is the most godawful red and gold glass monstrosity and it’s hanging right over him, like the most tasteless sword of Damocles. It must have been Tony’s choice, because Steve’s got better taste than that.

He growls at it, but it doesn’t go away. Just like the stupid coyote.

At least the lampshade is a distraction from the pain in his leg.

“I’m pretty sure Jane told you to rest this,” Bruce says from where he’s sitting on the coffee table, poking at the offending limb.”

“I did,” Bucky says.

“They meant for more than five minutes,” Bruce says with a deep sigh. That’s an exaggeration. Bucky waited for days before he left the house.

“There’s a werecoyote up by the guesthouse, stealing food,” Bucky explains.

“And you couldn’t leave it to Steve and Natasha to deal with?” Bruce asks.

“They’ve got other stuff to deal with. I was just checking it out.”

“Well, next time check it out while _resting your injured leg_ ,” Bruce tells him, holding his gaze firmly. “You’re lucky I’m making house calls today, Jane and Helen are going to be livid when they find out what a mess you’ve made of all their hard work.”

“So I told him,” Steve says from the doorway. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest and he’s glaring in his best alpha wolf manner. It might work on the other pack members, but to Bucky he’s still just a punk. “But I guess that the lure of the guesthouse was too much for him to ignore.”

“Sam told me there was food going missing and a coyote had been sighted. You know there are no wild coyotes in the area and no one in the pack has a coyote-shape,” Bucky says, bristling.

“I know, just maybe not when you’re convalescing from an injury,” Bruce says mildly. “You’re going to have to stay off it another two days now.”

“By which time the coyote will be long gone,” Bucky replies with a growl.

“Which means the problem solves itself,” Steve says.

“Shifters don’t travel alone.”

“Sometimes we do,” Steve says and Bucky is reminded that _yes_ , sometimes they do, when they’re big enough idiots and they decide to take on a people trafficking ring on their own.

“We can’t risk you going back up to your house,” Bruce says.

“No, we can’t,” Steve agrees. “He needs to be where someone can keep an eye on him.”

“Seriously?” Bucky asks, glaring at his leg angrily. “I’m stuck here for another two days?”

“Believe me, you’re not the only one for whom this is not an optimal solution,” Tony says, sticking his head through the door, a cup of coffee in one hand giving off its alluring aroma. “But Steve’s casa es su casa, I suppose.”

“Gee thanks, Stark. I feel so welcome,” Bucky says, glaring at him as he takes another sip of coffee. No one’s offered Bucky any coffee.

“I live to serve,” Tony says with a smirk, like he knows what Bucky’s thinking, then he disappears out the door again.

“Look, Steve, you’ve got to check the coyote out.”

“Natasha’s on it.”

“It was weird, though,” Bucky says, remembering that unsettling feeling. “It was there, but it wasn’t.” Steve frowns and shares a look with Bruce. “I wasn’t hallucinating. I mean, it was like… you know when you close one eye and you lose your depth perception.” They nod. “It was like that, like there was something missing. I couldn’t… smell it.” He pauses. “That was it, it had no scent.”

“There was nothing about your injury that should have caused nose-blindness,” Bruce says, peering at him more carefully.

Bucky remembers the other scents around him clear as day: chemicals of the wood stain and the fresh aroma of the gas, all undertones to Robin’s scent which lingers in his nose.

“No, I could smell everything else,” he says. “Can still smell Stevie over there,” he adds, wrinkling his nose. “It just… had no scent. It was creepy. Like it wasn’t really there.”

“Odd,” Bruce says, packing his equipment away. “Although I think I may have heard about something like that before. I’ll do some research.”

“Thanks Bruce,” Steve says, shaking his head. “And thanks for helping with this idiot.” Bucky scowls as Steve jerks a thumb at him. “I’ll keep him off the leg.”

“See that you do,” Bruce says before saying goodbye.

Bucky flops backwards onto the couch in frustration, stuck there again.

“Stevie,” he calls. “You’ve got to get a new lampshade.” Because if he has to stay here another two days, Bucky’s going to destroy this one.

*

The lampshade is still there when Natasha walks in.

“I’ve been all around the guesthouse,” she is saying and Bucky perks up from where he’s reading on the couch. “I can’t smell a thing, Steve. There’s nothing there. Just our friend Mr Pevensie and a lingering smell of...” she trails off and waves her hand at Bucky in exasperation. “No hint of a coyote, were or otherwise.”

“But Bucky saw it,” Steve says.

“But I didn’t smell it,” Bucky adds. “You didn’t see anything?” he asks Natasha and she shakes her head.

“I think you scared it off,” she says. “Unless, I mean, I don’t believe in ghosts, but that doesn’t exactly mean anything.”

“He didn’t seem scared to me,” Bucky says, remembering the smug little bark the coyote had given before seizing hold of the sandwich and running away. He can feel the wolf part of his brain growing restless at the idea of it again. Upstart little coyote, thinking he could get the better of a full-grown wolf. If Bucky hadn’t been injured...

“And what does a ghost want with a sandwich?” Steve asks, cutting into Bucky’s thoughts of revenge.

“I don’t know, maybe it ran out of ghost food,” Natasha says, perching on the arm of the couch and running a hand over Bucky’s head. He lets her. “How are you doing?” she asks him and Bucky shrugs.

“Bored,” he says. “Pissed off.”

“So, no different from usual.”

“He keeps staring out the window, brooding like Mr Rochester,” Tony says unhelpfully. “It ruins the mood.”

“Good,” Bucky says with an eyeroll. “I don’t need you two getting in the mood when I’m in the same room as you. I get that enough at the moon.”

“It’s our house,” Tony says. “Just because you can’t get over yourself enough to admit you want into Little Robin Redbreast’s pants, doesn’t mean you should be playing cockblock to us, when we’re being kind enough to put you up.”

Steve calmly comes up behind Tony and wraps an arm around his waist, whispering something in his ear, and Tony shuts up.

Bucky very carefully does not listen to whatever that is and turns to Natasha instead, who is watching him with a thoughtful look on her face.

“You and Robin,” she says. Bucky schools his face. He does not need Tony’s ridiculous idea catching on. He knows Natasha will matchmake anyone given half a chance. “Hm,” she says, still watching him, and Bucky stares back defiantly, refusing to give her any sort of response. She pets his hair again and purses her lips.

“What are you two glaring about?” Steve asks, coming to sit down next to Bucky as Tony buzzes off – probably to get some coffee.

“Nothing,” Natasha says. Steve turns to him instead and Bucky shrugs.

“Ask her, she started it,” he says, opening his book back up. Steve just sighs.

“So you don’t think we’re going to have a problem, Nat?” he asks, and Bucky sees her shake her head out of the corner of his eye.

“Whoever it was is gone now, as far as I can tell, no scent, no tracks that I could see. Probably just passing through.”

“Good,” Steve says. “We’ve had enough problems for a lifetime already. I’d like to have a peaceful few years.”

Bucky snorts, unable to help himself, and looks up to Steve Rogers’ wounded expression.

“Don’t look at me like that, you know you’d be bored out of your mind if there wasn’t any trouble, Stevie,” he says. “You’ve been looking for fights since we were pups. You’re not going to stop now.”

“He’s right, Steve,” Natasha agrees. “You won’t be happy until you’ve set the whole world to rights.”

Bucky’s ears catch the sound of footsteps outside, on the pavement, and he tilts his head. The gait is familiar, and he can just hear the rumble of voices talking to each other. Robin and Darcy, walking past the building.

He doesn’t realise that he’s clenched his teeth together until he sees Natasha looking at him again with her long assessing gaze, and he forces himself to relax, trying to ignore the guttural feeling of irritation he feels at the sound. There’s a bubble of what must be laughter as well, before the sounds of them fade away, and he reminds himself that he has decided that Pevensie is not the bad guy here. He saved his life, he shouldn’t be worried about him making friends with the pack. And Darcy has every right to make friends with who she wants, Bucky shouldn’t be angry at her for it.

He’s giving the guy a chance, he reminds himself again.

*

Bucky curls up by the window in wolf-shape. Steve’s got the TV on behind him, staying in out of some sense of obligation, and Tony’s cuddled up against his side. The scent of them is comforting, the gentle domesticity of it all, but Bucky can’t escape that feeling of being pent up, locked in.

He hates it, hates the twitch in the back of his head that always comes with a locked door – literal or figurative. It reminds him of the cages, every time, and since he’s been confined to bed rest, the nightmares have been worse every night.

Outside the moon is still waning, going down to its narrowest sliver of a crescent. The night is dark and quiet, even to wolf ears, and he is listening. The coyote is worrying.

Steve is right that shifters don’t always move in packs, and that’s more true of coyotes than wolves, as their packs tend to be looser, with more focus on family groups than the main pack, but still.

There’s another niggling thing at the back of his head, that makes him bare his teeth just thinking about it. He doesn’t know why he’s reacting so violently. He’s met weres from other packs before, and not just in the cages. But there’s something about this coyote, the way it was hanging around the guesthouse, waiting for food, that gets his hackles up. He knows that Pevensie is a soft touch, that much is obvious enough after what happened with the bear trap – and Bucky has no clue what to do with that information – but that doesn’t mean some coyote pup – and it had been a pup – should be taking advantage.

What is a pup doing on their own, begging for food? That’s a different question.

He’s heard, of course, about packs that follow the more traditional ways, and casting out runts to fend for themselves, but he’d thought that had died out before the turn of the last century. Maybe coyotes have hung onto practices like that. He growls at the idea.

“You okay over there?” Tony calls. “Please tell me you’re not actually growling at your own reflection, because I really hoped you were smarter than that.”

Bucky rolls his head around and glares at Tony, but years of being around wolves, and being the mate of the pack alpha, have left him immune. Steve is no help either, just smirks, while pretending to watch the TV.

“Or are you hoping to catch a glimpse of Prince Charming?” Tony asks. Bucky heaves a huge sigh and lowers his head onto his front paw. “Your handsome rescuer come to stand under your window.”

Tony has been insufferable ever since Bucky was injured, apparently the fact that there’s no lasting damage makes it free game, and he’s built up a whole narrative of Bucky swooning into the arms of his gallant rescuer, like that’s how it actually happened.

He didn’t swoon.

And now he’s thinking about it again, the way Pevensie had managed to calm him down, even through the pain. No one but Steve’s ever managed that before, and how relaxed he had felt, like he was safe with the human.

He goes to lick at his leg, but pulls himself back again at the last minute. Last time Steve had seen him licking at the wound, he’d threatened him with a cone, so he doesn’t pull the stitches or irritate the wound.

Doesn’t mean the damn thing doesn’t itch, though? The improved healing that comes with shapeshifting itches like a motherfucker.

He glares at his leg, as though that will help.

If he had just looked where he was going and not stepped into the trap, then he wouldn’t have been hurt, Pevensie would never have known he was there and it could all have continued as it was.

But now he owes Pevensie his leg, if not his life, and that’s a nightmare.

And he let Pevensie... pet him. That’s even worse. Not that the guy knows it was him, but still. Bucky huffs again and looks out the window at the tops of the trees as they wave in the breeze.

He hates having nothing to do but sit around all day.

*

After days of bedrest and staring at the walls, Bucky is ready to kiss Bruce when he says that it’s time for some ‘gentle’ and ‘brief’ exercise of his leg. He’s almost out the door before the words have left the doctor’s lips and he can hear Bruce sighing behind him.

“Just because lycanthropy allows for accelerated healing doesn’t make it a panacea,” Bruce calls after him. Bucky grins.

His leg feels tight and a bit wobbly underneath him at first, but he ignores that. He can walk. And it’s not like he lost the limb this time.

Steve catches him at the door and grasps his arm.

“Gentle exercise, remember,” he says. “Doctor’s orders.” Bucky grins at him. “No running.”

“Whatever you say,” Bucky tells him. “You’re the alpha after all.” Steve sighs, like he always does when Bucky calls him ‘the alpha’ like it’s a joke. Because it sort of is to him. Not that he doesn’t take it seriously, but the fact that tiny Steve Rogers, who had been so far the pecking order his whole childhood, and who had always had the attitude of an alpha since he was a pup, had finally made it to top of the heap. It’s a cosmic joke.

Bucky does not skip down the street. He’s not that big an idiot. He can feel that his leg still isn’t back to full strength, and he is taking it easy. Doesn’t mean he can’t add a bit of a swagger to his walk, though.

It’s nice to feel the wind on his face, rather than watching out the window as it pulls at people’s hair. It’s nice to feel the sun, rather than the hum of Tony’s air conditioning.

If it weren’t for the bylaws in place to prevent public shifting on the street – for the safety of everyone in town – Bucky would shift right now and let his wolf-shape explore every nook and cranny of the town, searching out the new smells that have filled it up since he last went for a wander. He can still smell them in human form, but there’s not the same nuance.

His head is turned by a curl of scent that strongly implies that Maria from the antique store down the street has finally given in and let Sharon, who runs the steakhouse, take her on a date. That’ll be an interesting relationship. He isn’t looking where he’s going, though, when his shoulder smacks into something solid and warm.

Bucky’s balance goes all wrong, his leg gives way again, twisting a little as he goes down with a thud.

And peering down over him are the big blue eyes of Robin Pevensie.

“Shit,” Pevensie says. Bucky takes a deep breath and Pevensie’s scent rolls over him as well. He must have been really caught up in things that he didn’t notice it. But that might be because his scent has changed.

The fear has gone, as has the twitchiness that offended Bucky so much when the guy first got here. He smells a little like contentment, and it’s a good scent on him, warm and peaceful and soothing.

“Are you okay?” Pevensie asks. “Oh shit. You’re sick. I just knocked over a sick person.” He sticks out his right hand for Bucky to pull himself up. “Wow you’ve got a good grip. Strong, firm.” Bucky raises an eyebrow as he levers himself upwards and reassesses his leg, putting his weight on it slowly. It doesn’t seem too bad. “You must exercise it a lot,” Pevensie says.

They look down at where their hands are still holding onto each other.

“I should let go,” Pevensie says, and then does so, a millisecond before Bucky lets go as well, although his palm feels strangely cold afterwards. “Seriously, are you okay? I didn’t mean to knock you over.”

“I’m good,” Bucky says. He’s not sure how he feels about Pevensie right now. On the one hand he owes him his leg, at the very least. And the guy is... weirdly fitting in. But there’s still something about his scent that is strange, that makes the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck stand on end. But he’s being open minded. Maybe Pevensie isn’t that bad. “You in a hurry?”

Pevensie seems to consider this for a moment.

“Not really. I was heading to the hardware store to pick up some more wood stain,” he shrugs. “I don’t actually know where it is, though. I mean, this town is tiny, I should be able to find the hardware store, right? But...” he spreads his hands. “I guess I haven’t been to that bit before.”

Bucky considers this. He could just give the guy directions, but maybe this is a good opportunity to try being nice to him, or at least helpful.

“This way,” Bucky says, a bit abruptly, turning around. The hardware store is back the way he came, and he should probably start back anyway.

“Uh... with you?” Pevensie asks, a little uncertainly, and Bucky sighs under his breath, because maybe he’s been a bit of a dick to the guy.

Sure, he’s been a dick. Not that he’s going to say that in front of Sam.

“Yeah, keep up,” Bucky says. His good mood is fading a bit. Robin Pevensie makes things complicated, everything had been so simple for a few minutes and now here he is again, being complicated.

“Thanks,” Pevensie says, catching up with him.

“It’s not a problem,” Bucky says, glancing at Robin out of the corner of his eye. He’s got a peeling bit of sunburn on the tip of his nose, and his hair is a complete mess, and he smells like sawdust. Bucky thinks that maybe he should say something nice, like a secret thank you, because he can’t actually say thank you, because Pevensie has no idea – can have no idea – that it was Bucky he saved.

“Heard you’ve been saving animals,” he says, watching Pevensie’s eyes widen.

“Uh just one,” he says quickly.

“What? No birds with broken wings?” Bucky asks.

“Nope. Just the wolf with the bloody leg.”

“That was a good thing to do,” Bucky says. He feels a bit self-important saying that, but it’s the closest thing to a thank you he can get. Pevensie ducks his head, the red on his face getting even darker as he turns away. It’s kind of endearing.

“Aw, I just did what I had to do, y’know. Couldn’t just leave it there.”

“Yeah you could’ve,” Bucky says. “I’ve met men who would’ve. I’ve met guys who would’ve set the trap on purpose, just to watch a creature...” _writhe in pain and beg for release_. Fuck. He shakes his head to get the memories out.

“So’ve I,” Pevensie says, a bit bleakly.

“And you’re not one of them. Guess you’re not so bad after all,” Bucky says. It’s weak praise if it’s even that. It’s not exactly a high bar to jump over, practically subterranean when you think about it. But the compliment, feeble as it is, has Pevensie’s face breaking into a small smile. He looks almost surprised, like he thinks that maybe even that amount of praise is too much for him. His eyes dart over to Bucky’s, searching for the lie, and when he catches Bucky looking back at him, the smile falters, then tugs into something bigger, broader, more forced.

“Coming from you, that’s high praise,” he says.

Bucky comes to a stop, a little awkwardly, and Pevensie’s smile falls a bit as his mouth opens.

“Hardware store,” Bucky says, nodding over Pevensie’s shoulder, and he turns comically, his mouth still open, then grins a huge honest smile.

“Awesome! Thanks Buc- Barnes. You’re a life-saver.” He sticks his hands into his pockets and sways up onto the balls of his feet a little, seemingly caught.

There are words in Bucky’s head, because that compliment that wasn’t shouldn’t have been so mind blowing to anyone. And maybe he doesn’t _like_ the guy, but Pevensie’s the sort of man who goes out of his way to help an injured animal, so maybe he’s worth a little of Bucky’s respect.

“It was brave,” he settles on, and Pevensie shifts awkwardly around again, twisting a little in place.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Pevensie says, “Captain Courageous.”

“It was brave,” Bucky repeats, because the point doesn’t seem to have sunk in. Pevensie’s shoulders slump a bit.

“Yeah, I didn’t run away from the terrified wounded animal caught in the trap,” he says. Bucky bristles a bit at the ‘terrified’. He wasn’t terrified, he was angry. “Someone give me the Medal of Honour.” Bucky rolls his eyes. He hasn’t got time to hammer into the idiot’s head that he actually means it.

“Go get your wood stain,” he says instead, turning around to walk away.

“You’re almost nice when you’re not being a dick,” Pevensie calls after him. Bucky flips him the finger over his shoulder and hears a delighted laugh in response, that makes the edges of his mouth turn up, just a little bit.

*

The next day, Clint opens the door to start work in the morning, while the air’s still crisp and the sun hasn’t had a chance to burn the moisture from the air just yet, to find the massive black head of the three-legged wolf lifting off of its front paw to look at him.

“Huh,” Clint says. “You’re here early.”

It jumps to its feet and comes to stand at Clint’s side, looking out into the surroundings like a guard dog. Clint pats its head and scratches behind its ears.

“You going to help me out this time, or just going to sit there watching? I know I love an audience, but a helping hand would be welcome too. I’ve got to finish the steps today, then I’ll start on the stain tomorrow. Just don’t lick it, okay, I’m not sure if it’ll kill you, but it sure as hell won’t taste nice.”

He does not say that the reason he knows this is because he accidentally licked the bit he got on his finger. Clint’s pretty sure he’s not going to die. He gargled coffee for about ten minutes to get it out of his mouth, although the taste still lingers a little bit. He runs his tongue over his teeth with a grimace.

The wolf looks at him with an expression that clearly says ‘I’m not an idiot,’ and Clint grins at him as he sets himself down on the grass a few feet away, every muscle alert as he looks into the forest.

“What’s up?” Clint asks, because he’s pretty much got to the point now where talking to the wolf is normal. As long as the wolf doesn’t talk back. “Feeling territorial? There’s nothing to worry about, just a little coyote. You’re still the biggest baddest wolf around.”

The wolf turns to give him an unimpressed look.

“Alright – you can’t even understand me, the least you can do is pretend I’m awesome.” It huffs. “Whatever,” Clint says with a shrug. “Stand there and look scary then, I guess.”

The wolf stays there all day, but refuses to share Clint’s lunch when it’s offered. The coyote doesn’t show up, and Clint feels a bit bad. But he guesses they have other ways of getting food. They must do. They can’t just wait for people to leave sandwiches lying around.

He ends up finishing the steps in the mid-afternoon and stands back to appreciate his handiwork.

The wolf limps over to stand next to him, surveying the results as well. It takes a few steps forwards.

“Go on, test them out,” Clint says. “They probably won’t break – I hope.”

The wolf takes its next step very hesitantly, like it’s aware that Clint is only 80% sure he’s done this right, but its front paw slowly lowers onto the bottom step and it turns back to look at him.

“They’re not going to break,” Clint says as confidently as he can muster, which is pretty darn confident.

The wolf trots on up and turns around at the top to walk back down again, exactly as if it’s testing the steps out. Clint grins.

“You approve?” he asks as the wolf wags its tail at him, pushing its head into his hand to lick at his palm. “Well, everything is okay then.”

Clint takes his own first step onto them and cautiously lifts his other foot off the floor. The wood creaks a bit, but there’s no give.

“After this, there’s not much more to do,” he says. “Just the stain, really. I’ll be finished in a couple of days.” He pauses at the thought, then sits down on the shiny new top step he’s just sanded down. It really will be finished in a couple of days. He hasn’t been thinking much about what comes next – which is how he’s lived most of his life, to be honest. You do what’s in front of you to do. Sure, when he’d been a kid he’d had all sorts of daydreams, but the reality is he’s a carnie – ex-carnie now, he supposes, unless he can find another carnival to take him and Barney, but that sounds too dangerous with Jacques still out for blood – who mostly lives day-to-day. But… Sam’s been letting him stay for free while he’s been fixing the place. Once the place is fixed, that deal has to come to an end.

What’s he going to do then?

The bag of money stashed in his room leaps to his mind.

He could…

But there’s something in his mind that rebels against that very idea. That money’s tainted. There’s blood on it and Clint using it for himself? That makes him no better than the rest of the crew. Maybe he isn’t better than them anyway. Once a thief, always a thief. And just because he wasn’t the one to do it personally, doesn’t mean there isn’t blood on his hands.

Why did he take the money?

Sure he didn’t want them to have it, but should _he_ have it? Clint doesn’t deserve it any more than the rest of the carnival did.

His time to make a decision is running out.

The wolf comes to sit next to him, resting his head on the deck close to Clint’s hip, but not touching. Clint sighs and looks down at him.

“When did everything get so complicated?” he asks. “I’m just… I guess I’m trying to do the right thing, but I don’t even know what that is anymore.”

The wolf whines and they sit in companionable silence for a moment. It’s nice, having someone to talk to, even if they don’t know what he’s saying.

The wolf’s head snaps up and it jumps to its feet, looking across the yard intently. Its lips roll back into a snarl that vibrates the base of Clint’s skull, even though it’s so low, he can’t really hear it. Clint’s pulse leaps. Every instinct screams danger, but not from the wolf. He thinks maybe it’s the coyote again, but he can’t see a sign of the silvery fur.

There’s a movement in the undergrowth that’s so familiar, Clint almost knows what he’s going to see before he sees it.

A twitching nose appears, followed by a pointy red face and a slender red furry body.

The wolf relaxes minutely, but sniffs the air again as the fox darts across to the bottom step. It barks once and the wolf replies with a rumble before pushing the fox away with its nose. The fox swishes its bushy tail once, cocking its head to one side, then raises a paw to delicately swipe at the wolf’s nose.

“Hey!” Clint says. “Play nice.”

The sound draws the foxes attention and it turns to him, then opens its mouth to make the strangest chittering noise – almost like a monkey, or like it’s laughing at him. It gives another couple of short barks, directed at the wolf, then skips off into the woods again.

“Well, that was weird,” Clint says. The wolf ignores him.

*

OK, so Clint, maybe, slightly, wants to climb Bucky Barnes like a tree.

Thor might have had a point.

The guy’s back at work this evening, slinging beers like he’s never been away. He’s moving a little more gingerly than usual.

“You get bored of bunking off?” Sam asks as they head up to the bar. Bucky glares at him.

“You know, I think maybe it was having to look at you every night that made me sick,” Bucky says. “Maybe I’m allergic to you, Wilson. You got nothing better than to come here every night?”

“I’m just worried that if I stop coming, you’ll lose half your customers. You know they only come in to see me, right?”

“Keep telling yourself that, and maybe one day you’ll believe it,” Bucky replies then, without prompting, he turns to Clint.

Fuck.

Usually they have a stand-off where Bucky pretends he doesn’t see Clint until Clint makes enough of a nuisance that Bucky deems dealing with him less annoying than ignoring him, but it seems that the rules have changed.

“What are you having, Pevensie?” he asks.

“Uh, just a beer... please,” Clint says, looking at Sam who seems unperturbed by this strange turn of events.

And he gets his beer, without a snarky comment or a glare, just the bottle, opened and pushed across the bar.

“Thanks,” Clint says. “So you didn’t die, then?” he asks, then winces.

“Not yet,” Bucky says.

“Good. That’s good. I mean, that you’re okay. And alive.”

“I like to think so,” Bucky tells him, smiling a bit. Oh fuck, did Clint just get an actual smile? That’s not right. That can’t be right.

Clint had forgotten that the guy gets hotter when he smiles. Technically that shouldn’t really be possible, because he’s got the whole brooding mystique thing going for him, but then he smiles and–

Yeah, Clint wants to bang him like a screen door in a hurricane.

And all tingling feelings are definitely happening in his dick and not his chest, no matter what the heart eyes Thor is making from down the bar might say.

He hands over the cash and Bucky waves his hand.

“I’ll stick it on Sam’s tab,” he says. “He owes you a drink for all the work you’ve done on the guesthouse.”

Another customer beckons from the other end of the bar, and Bucky walks away, leaving Clint gaping at Sam.

“Did he just... Is he...? Was he really sick, or was he kidnapped by aliens and replaced by a shapeshifting replica?” Clint asks. Sam chuckles and pats him on the shoulder.

“Maybe he’s just got his head out of his ass,” Sam suggests. “Sometimes it gets stuck up there for a bit.”

Clint keeps waiting for the other shoe, to drop, but it... doesn’t. Bucky continues to be civil to him and actually smiles three times (not that Clint is in anyway counting). It’s unnerving, it’s disturbing and something is Wrong with the universe.

Clint will find out what.

*

Clint avoids the bar the next night, or rather, he tries to. He makes it two hours before he can’t take it anymore. The episode of Dog Cops is a repeat and he’s not in the mood for Teens with Tarantulas, on the other channel.

So he pulls on his jacket and tells himself he’s just going for a walk.

Yeah, he doesn’t believe himself either.

His feet drift towards the bar, even though he directs himself away from it. His path curves, drawn by the inexorable gravity of Bucky’s smile.

It’s still not a crush, though. He just wants to know what happened to make Mr Perpetual Frown start treating him like he’s not the devil incarnate.

It’s just curiosity.

But he pushes the door to the bar open, and the atmosphere hits him like a wave breaking over him. There’s the warmth of the room and the noise of the crowd. People laughing, people talking, Thor’s booming voice calling out over it all.

And, as he walks in, Bucky’s eyes lift up towards the door and they end up looking at each other.

Clint is not smooth. He tries to be smooth, but the best comment he’d ever get is ‘good effort’. Which is probably why he lifts his hand and waggles his fingers in a wave. Bucky nods and gives him that small half smile again, and by the time Clint’s made it to the bar, there’s already a bottle open for him and Bucky nods to where Steve and Sam are waiting by the pool table.

“Put Sam outta his misery, would you? Steve was hoping for a rematch with you, but Sam had to step up when you weren’t around.” Bucky makes a face. “No one wants that.”

“Really?” Sam’s voice rises above the ebb and flow of the rest of the conversation. “You’re seriously going to do that to me, man? Why am I friends with you again?” Clint looks over and sees Steve giving a smug little shrug.

“It’s the way the game works, Sam.”

“Fuck you too, Rogers.”

“There you are,” Natasha’s voice comes from beside him and her arm links through Clint’s. “Please come and rescue my idiot boyfriend. If you don’t, we’re not going to hear the end of this for days.” She tugs him away from the bar, and Clint looks back over his shoulder at Bucky, who quickly looks away.

“Robin!” Sam calls out. “Come and tell this cheater that this is an illegal move.”

He hears Natasha sigh next to him and mutter something under her breath.

“Like I said – you need to rescue him,” she says.

Steve finishes Sam off pretty effectively, and Sam cries off a rematch, directing Steve towards Clint. The sheriff accepts the change of opponent enthusiastically.

As always, they’re evenly matched, but Clint finds his attention divided. He keeps catching glimpses through the crowd of Bucky working at the bar, tucking his hair behind his ear or stretching his arm out, or taking a drink and Clint’s eyes get caught on the bob of his throat as he swallows.

Luckily, he can make most shots blindfolded, but he’s not as accurate with a pool cue as with a bow, so Steve ends up beating him, finishing with a firm handshake and a clap on the back.

“I was counting on you, Pevensie,” Sam says, shaking his head. “Really, why’d you have to do this to me?” He shakes his head and hands over a couple of bills to Natasha who tucks them into her pocket with a secretive smile. “You’re better than this, man.” Sam shakes his head. “I’m not upset, I’m just disappointed.”

“Sam,” Steve says, a little reprovingly.

“Just because you’re a sore loser,” Tony calls from where he’s sitting. Sam shakes his head.

“Not my night, I guess,” Sam says with a sigh. “Guess it’s time for another drink.” He drifts back to the bar.

“Rematch?” Steve asks hopefully, turning back to Clint.

“Sure, why not?” Clint says, watching as Steve sets up the balls again.

*

The problem with deciding not to hate Robin Pevensie, is that it opens the doorway for noticing things about him, other than his suspicious lack of personal history and the sense of trouble dogging his footsteps.

It means that as Bucky’s serving Sharon her martini, his eyes notice the way Pevensie’s ass looks in those jeans that are just a bit too tight for him as he’s bending over the pool table.

It means when Bucky teases Steve , he notices the way that Pevensie’s laugh is carefree and delighted, like Bucky’s surprised him in the best sort of way.

He notices that Pevensie’s voice can be the good kind of velvet, but that sometimes he doesn’t hear things so well, but he doesn’t like to ask people to repeat them, just nods along.

He notices that, when he’s in wolf-shape, Pevensie’s fingers scratching through his fur behind his ears feel so very good and very deft, finding itches he didn’t even realise he had.

He notices how Pevensie’s side is warm when he leans against it. How Pevensie sometimes manages to catch Natasha out and make her laugh until she cries.

And he notices Pevensie’s lips and Pevensie’s arms, and the way his tongue sometimes sticks out between his teeth when he sets up a shot, and how Bucky kind of wants to suck on it.

It’s not that he _likes_ the guy. But now that he’s _noticing_ things, he’s noticing that Robin Pevensie is pretty damn attractive.

And if he doesn’t hear Steve’s order because he’s too busy staring at Pevensie’s thighs where he sits, dangling his beer bottle between them and playing with it like he’s giving it a goddamn handjob right there in Bucky’s fucking bar?

Well Steve’s boring and always orders the same goddam thing, so he can shut the hell up.

“Bad idea,” Natasha says, when she catches him at it.

“Believe me, I know,” Bucky says.

“He is temporary,” she says, turning round to lean her back against the bar. “You are not good at temporary.”

“I might be, I’ve never tried,” Bucky says, and Natasha glances over her shoulder at him with her most unimpressed expression.

“You and Steve pretty much define the term ride or die. You met when you were what? 4?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “You don’t do things by halves. It’s all in or go home. You’re a wolf. You mate for life.”

“Mating doesn’t have to mean Mating,” Bucky says, waggling his eyebrows a bit, and she sighs. “What about you and Sam, you telling me that’s not permanent?”

“Neither of us are wolves,” she says. “And we are... what we are. It lasts for as long as it lasts. I hope it’s a long time, but neither of us is bound to it.”

“Romantic.”

“Romance has its place, so does pragmatism,” she tells him. “I love Sam. He loves me. We’re both aware of that. But if he left tomorrow, it would not destroy me.”

“It wouldn’t destroy me either.”

“Maybe not, but you would be in pain, and you have been in enough pain in your lifetime. Don’t look for more.”

Pevensie leans over the table to interrupt Sam and Steve’s conversation and Bucky follows the line of the muscles in his back as they stretch out and Natasha’s little sigh of disappointment says it all.

“I’m not going to get too attached,” he says, defensively, then lowers his voice. “I’d know if he were a potential mate.” She says nothing. “I’d know.” Bucky repeats, as firmly as he can. Whatever this is, it isn’t _that_.

*

Alright. Clint’s having fun. Sure, it’s got to the point where most people in the town don’t want to play him for money anymore, but he’d forgotten how much fun he could have just playing pool.

Steve comes over for a game whenever they’re both there, and Clint has to admit the guy’s really good. Clint thinks he’s still winning on average, but the winner between the two of them pretty much depends on who breaks. Their nightly games draw a crowd. Even if people don’t want to play him for money, they have no qualms about betting on him.

Steve – he’s learning to call the sheriff by his first name, and it’s getting easier – is shaking Clint’s hand when Clint becomes aware of the atmosphere changing. There’s also the prickle on the back of his neck that tells Clint someone’s staring daggers at him, and Clint knows just who it is before he turns around.

“Barnes,” he says. Bucky’s close. So close that Clint can almost feel him, and he smothers the thought that it’s a pity he _can’t_ feel him.

“So you can knock some balls around the table,” Bucky says. His eyes are boring right into Clint’s and Clint wonders if anyone else can feel the tension ratchet up between them, or if it’s just him. He thinks that maybe Bucky can feel it, all his muscles look tense as well, like he’s coiled to leap, and his eyes are predator-sharp. It makes Clint shiver in a strange mix of anticipation and deep-rooted fight or flight instinct.

“Maybe you should branch out a bit,” Bucky says. Clint raises an eyebrow.

“Meaning?” he asks. If there weren’t a crowd of people around them, Clint would say it’s fifty-fifty whether Bucky’s about to fuck him or fight him, but there is, so fighting seems the mostly likely course here.

“We have a dartboard,” Bucky says, jerking his head to the far wall. Clint’s noticed it before, in passing, but he’s never risked playing at it. It’s too close to what he’s avoiding, but the challenge in Bucky’s eyes seems like it might push him over that edge.

“You’re challenging me to darts?” Clint asks, not hiding his grin. If Bucky’s really going to go there, then Clint’s not going to pretend this will end anything other than badly. “I mean, I prefer pool, but why not?” It’s not a lie. Straight darts is just too easy. Now, if he were blindfolded and throwing them backwards, it might present a challenge. “I guess if you want to lose to me, though,” he says, spreading his hands wide, “who am I to stop you?”

Over Bucky’s shoulder, Clint can see Natasha sipping from a beer. She winks at him.

Not for the first time, he wonders what she knows – _how much_ she knows. “You think you’re gonna beat me?” Bucky asks, his mouth curving into a bigger grin. “You beat Stevie at pool a couple of times and suddenly you’re cock of the walk. That’s the way it is, huh?”

“I think I can give you a run for your money,” Clint says, leaning back against the pool table and licking his lips. He sees Bucky’s eyes dip down for a second. Yeah, he’s definitely not the only one feeling the tension here.

“Maybe take a look at the wall of fame,” Bucky says.

Steve pats Clint on the arm and points towards a wooden board next to the dartboard. Clint’s never paid attention to it before, but now he does, there’s a list of years down the side and next to each one is a name. Bucky’s name is next to the last three years, before that someone else seems to have claimed the title, but before that, Bucky’s name can be seen again on another 3 years.

“Looks like I won’t be the first to knock you off the top spot,” he says.

He knows he’s said something wrong before the words have even fully left his lips. Bucky’s face closes off again. Why is it he can never win with this guy? He watches Bucky roll his left shoulder. Aw, hell. Clint’s put his foot in it again. And he really wants the guy to stop hating his guts. At this rate, dinner’s going to be the most awkward thing Clint’s ever done.

“I wasn’t around that year,” Bucky says into the quiet that’s grown around them.

“Then I guess I get to be your – _the_ first,” Clint says, resisting the urge to smack himself in the face. He hears a few chuckles in the crowd, which Bucky glares at.

“Let’s just play darts,” Bucky grunts.

“Good idea.”

*

Bucky goes first and nails a 180 on the first round, he grins at Robin, who doesn’t even blink as he throws his first dart to hit the triple twenty. The next dart hits the triple nineteen straight on, and he nails the bullseye with the third. 167. Bucky blinks, and there’s some jeering from the crowd. Bucky gives Robin a glance, and the guy’s still smiling. He can’t be doing what Bucky thinks he’s doing.

“You can just forfeit now,” Robin says, “Keep some dignity.” He pats Bucky on the shoulder and the touch fizzes through him with something like anger, but not quite.

It’s felt like there’s an invisible cord tying the two of them together all night, from the moment Pevensie walked in, Bucky’s felt tugged towards him.

It’s different now, he can’t just _hate_ the guy. He owes him, and that’s made everything go wonky, like a kaleidoscope that’s been twisted just a little bit and the picture’s all different.

He still knows the guy means trouble, but he’s not so sure he cares anymore.

He smothers the feeling, letting it tighten inside him and channeling it into his throws, but the last one goes slightly wide. 140. It’s not terrible, but he’s done better.

“I’m happy to give you some pointers,” Robin offers, grinning cheekily, and the not-anger rises again in Bucky’s stomach, making it churn and swoop uncomfortably.

“No thanks,” Bucky says with a glare. Robin smirks and throws. He hits the same three places: bullseye, triple twenty, triple nineteen. There’s a murmur from the crowd as some of them take notice. In fact, looking at the board, Bucky thinks maybe the guy literally just hit the exact same holes as before.

Bucky, takes his place and throws a 140 again, deliberately this time, leaving himself some wiggle room for the double at the end. When he goes to pull his darts out, some of them are hammered right into the wall. Apparently he’s throwing a little hard tonight.

“Good game,” Robin says, patting Bucky on the shoulder as he goes to take his next round. Bucky narrows his eyes. He knows what the guy’s doing, but he can’t believe he’ll actually manage it.

“It’s not over yet,” Bucky tells him.

The first dart flies out, hits the triple nineteen, dead centre again, like it’s magnetised to the spot. The second dart hits the triple twenty, right in the middle. Bucky can do the maths for this. He looks at Robin, and Robin looks back at him, still grinning. Then Robin raises his hand, looking Bucky directly in the eye, and nails the fucking bullseye – without looking. 167, again. A perfect nine-dart finish, pretty much as close to perfect as you can get.

Bucky wants to wipe the smug look off his stupid pretty face. Maybe with his mouth.

“You were saying?” Pevensie asks over the whoops and cat calls of their audience. He holds out a hand, his face a bit more serious. “It was a good game. You’re a good player. Better luck next time.”

Bucky looks down at the hand extended towards him and he wants to take it. It looks warm and he remembers that very hand soothing down his back with a gentleness he definitely hadn’t expected. He’s watched it smooth over sanded wood as well. He knows exactly what it will feel like if he takes it: broad and callused, with blisters from hard work.

He steels himself before he takes it and shakes it once, firmly, before pulling away as quickly as he can, not thinking about the lingering warmth in his palm.

“New guy’s got game,” Sam says, coming up beside him as Bucky goes to return to the bar. “He’s knocked both you and Steve off the top spots.”

 “Good game, Buck,” Steve says, because he’s a little shit and, alpha or no, Bucky can still beat him if he wants to. He just doesn’t want to because that would upset the delicate pack dynamics.

“The man’s a hustler,” Bucky grinds out between gritted teeth.

“He told you he was going to beat you,” Natasha says, sipping her drink. “Maybe you should listen to him.” She has her lips pursed and she’s glaring into her drink like it’s personally offended her.

Bucky does not ask her what’s wrong. She wouldn’t appreciate it if he did. She prefers to think things through and deal with them on her own. That’s just her way. It’s Bucky’s way too, these days, or it would be if Steve would let him. Bucky groans. He’s never going to live this one down. He should have just stayed behind the bar, but something had drawn him out. His eyes glance over to where Robin is still being clapped on the back.

 “Let’s talk about something else,” he says, a little desperately. “Like whether you’ve heard anything more about that coyote.”

Steve groans and drops his head to his hands.

“I thought we were done with that,” he says, but he sighs and goes back over the exact same things he told Bucky last time he asked.

*

Clint doesn't see the coyote again. The wolf must have scared it off. The wolf still comes to watch him, though.

He probably shouldn’t be left unsupervised, though, is a conclusion he’s rapidly coming to. His shirt has become snagged somewhere and he’s face with the dilemma of ripping the shirt off while wearing it, or stripping out of it and then cutting it free, which will probably be easier to fix.

From under the floorboards in the back room, he can hear the clarion call of a million dollars, telling him that he could afford a thousand new shirts if he wanted. He ignores it. He’s going straight.

Getting out of a t-shirt that’s stuck to a wall, is a pretty awkward manoeuvre, but he doesn’t strangle himself – Clint’s counting that as a plus. So far today he’s had no near-death experiences.

It’s when he’s bent almost in half, body out of the shirt, but arms still stuck in it, that he sees the wolf through his legs.

His vision’s a little upside-down, but he’s sure it’s the same wolf. Three-legged as always.

“You’re back!” he says delightedly, tugging his arms free a little bit too hard. He hears the ripping of fabric and looks down in dismay at the remains of his shirt with a heavy sigh. He turns, shoulders slumped, towards the wolf, who stares back at him, face inscrutable as ever.

Not like Clint would understand wolf-y emotions anyway. But he guesses that impassive staring probably doesn’t mean the animal’s hungry.

Although... the wolf’s not exactly staring at his face. Oh god, is it staring at Clint’s throat? Has it finally cracked and decided that Clint isn’t worth all the hassle? Clint swallows and looks around for a weapon. His bow’s inside, because he’s an idiot.

“Please don’t eat me?” he says and the wolf cocks its head to one side, then shakes it violently, huffing and standing up again, turning to look at the forest. “You don’t have to go. Sorry... just, you were staring at my throat and all.”

Clint might not be able to read wolf expressions, and there’s no way the wolf understands what Clint’s saying. He’s probably imagining things. But the expression the wolf levels at him then looks... embarrassed?

He’s assigning emotions to animals. He’s definitely been alone too long. But MeeJin, who’d taken care of all the carnival animals, had always sworn that she and Bess, the lionness, could understand each other.

“You can go if you want,” Clint says with a sigh, sitting down on the porch steps. “But if you want to stay, I guess I could do with the company.” The wolf hesitates, looking out into the forest, and looking back at Clint, as though torn. Clint wonders what’s going on in its head. What could a wolf possibly be conflicted about.

After a second the wolf shakes itself again, then turns around to walk back to Clint, head hanging a little, like it’s ashamed. It comes to sit on the step next to Clint, though there’s a very pointed feeling gap between them.

“Huh, guess I must smell pretty terrible to you,” Clint says, looking down at his chest. He’s been working on the porch for a few hours, hauling timber, and it’s not a cold day. He’s a bit sweaty, and wolf-senses must mean that his BO is off the chart. The wolf looks at him, then leans over to lick his shoulder, then pulls back – even further away than before.

“Thanks,” Clint says.

“Maybe I should get a dog,” he says. “It’d be some company, and everyone around here’s really nice and all, but it’s pretty clear I don’t belong.”

The wolf let out a small whine, then twists so its head is facing away from him.

“Don’t be sad, buddy,” Clint says, looking up at the sky. It’s beautiful blue, as far as the eye can see, which isn’t that far, given all the trees in the way. “It’s better than jail – and it’s better than...” Clint sighs. “It’s safe, and that’s all I can really ask right now.” How pathetic is it that his closest living contact is a wolf who’d probably like to rip his throat out?

He reaches out to drop his hand onto the wolf’s head again, and starts to stroke it gently.

The wolf looks at him for a second, then shuffles a bit closer.

The wolf’s head is massive. Clint’s hands aren’t small, but even stretched out he can’t quite reach from ear to ear on the thing. His fingers almost disappear into its fur.

The first stroke is tentative, gentle, and the wolf pushes up into it and Clint chuckles, allowing his fingers to dig in a bit more, scratch properly.

He’s been at it for almost a minute when he notices the rumble coming out of the wolf – not a growl, not quite. And then he hears the rhythmic thump noise, and there’s a tickle against his back. Clint looks down to see the big wolf-y tail wagging and he can’t quite smother the laugh.

He gets the distinct impression that the wolf is glaring at him.

“You can walk away whenever you want,” Clint reminds it, and it huffs, as though Clint’s being the weird one, and pushes back into Clint’s hand, which has stopped moving. Clint could swear it understands exactly what he’s saying.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps until the shadow falls over him and Clint looks up to see Steve standing over him, eyebrows right up his forehead. Clint tries to work out exactly what this must look like – stroking a massive fuck-off wolf on the half-fixed porch.

“’m on my break?” he says hopefully, but Steve isn’t even looking at him, he’s staring at the wolf, who has gone stiff under Clint’s hand. “I don’t think he’s dangerous,” he says quickly. “Seems sort of sweet actually.”

“Sweet?” Steve asks. His mouth is twisted in a way that could be amusement or irritation.

“Uh yeah...” Clint says. “He was just keeping me company.”

Steve looks at Clint, finally, and it is definitely amusement on his face, which – sure, that makes sense. Internally laughing at the idiot who thinks wolves are pets. Great, Clint. And you were trying to make a good impression.

“Of course he was,” Steve says. He looks at the wolf again and shakes his head. It stands up, giving a full body shake – like it’s shaking Clint out of its fur and starts to walk off, shoulder-checking Steve’s leg as it goes. It’s a move so human, that Clint can’t help but laugh. The wolf looks back at the sound and its tail wags once, quick and aborted, before it runs off into the woods again.

“You often make friends with the local wildlife, Robin?” Steve asks.

“When it makes friends with me,” Clint says with a shrug, standing up to stretch a bit. His back is aching and his throat is parched. “I mentioned it to you before. He comes to watch me work sometimes – no idea why. Must just be interested in new people.”

Steve bites his lip and nods.

“Must be it.”

“Seems kind of tame, for a wolf,” Clint adds. He’s about to make a comment about the carnival lions, but he bites his tongue. No one here knows he was with the carnival, and it’s better that way.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, smiling a bit wider now. “Some wolves are just puppies when you get to know them.”

*


	6. Release the Hounds

While he’s waiting for the final coat of stain to dry, Clint finds himself at a loose end. He watches some TV listlessly, then decides to wander around town, see what’s going on.

He’s not looking for Bucky. Just because the guy smiled at him one time does not mean they’re best friends now, no matter what Sam might have been joking about last night.

Clint’s feet take him to the crossroads in the centre of town, and he just stands there for a moment, looking around. This place functions just fine, chugging along at its own rate. Everyone knows what they’re doing and everyone’s doing it. And there’s him, sticking out in the middle of it. He sighs.

“Excellent!” a voice declares behind him. “There you are, Chicken Little. Scared the sky’s about to fall?” Tony asks and Clint turns to look at him.

Tony’s half covered in motor oil. There’s a rag over his shoulder, but that’s dirtier than he is, and there’s a blow torch in his hand.

“What’s up, rubber duck?” he asks and watches Tony frown at the name then shake his head to disregard it.

“I need a pair of hands and yours seem to be free,” he says, beckoning. “You wouldn’t think this town would be big enough to need more than one mechanic, but apparently it never rains et cetera et cetera. So I’ve got two projects, both urgent.”

“I’m not a mechanic, I mean, I know the basics, but I’m not…”

“I don’t need you to know anything. I need you to hold things, look pretty, and do what I tell you,” Tony says waving a hand like it’s not important. “I could do it on my own, but it would take twice as long, and Peter’s got homework, so I’ve lost my part time assistant for the evening, and you walked past so congratulations, you volunteered.”

“I…” Clint starts, but then he remembers that he really doesn’t have anything else to do and, to be honest, helping Tony out sounds a lot more interesting than wandering around the town feeling left out and sorry for himself. “Sure, why not?”

“That’s the spirit, Tweetie Pie,” Tony says, grabbing him by his arm and pulling him into the workshop. “Now, how much do you know about car engines.”

Clint ends up helping out with an old pick-up truck that smells of gas. He’s not sure how much use he really is, fetching and carrying things, holding lights out and trying the engine when Tony tells him. The thing’s set up weird in the cabin, though. It’s got a strange knob attached to the wheel and there's an odd round control panel rigged up around knee height. Clint looks at it, but it doesn’t seem to get in the way, so he ignores it.

“So, rescued any more animals in distress lately, Dr Doolittle?” Tony asks, rolling out from under the car again, wrinkling his nose.

“Not really,” Clint says, figuring that letting a coyote steal his lunch probably doesn’t count.

“Shame, I was going to get you a nurse’s outfit, little cap and everything.”

“Does the sheriff know you buy nurse’s outfits for other guys?”

“Steve supports my efforts in improving the sartorial choices of the town,” Tony tells him primly, and Clint nods like he understands what that means. Well, he understands what it means, doesn’t mean he knows what the words mean, though. Tony does that sometimes, just spits words into conversation that sound like he’s made them up. But whatever ‘sartorial’ means, it’s got something to do with dressing people up like porn wannabes. Clint doesn’t need a translation for that.

“Not sure he’d think that if he knew what my legs looked like in a nurse’s outfit.”

“I’m sure you fill out a pair of scrubs really well, Pevensie,” Tony says back and Clint grins, letting Tony win that one. He accepts his victory with a wink. “What? You didn’t think I was talking about anything naughty, now, did you?” Tony asks in mock surprise. “Robin Pevensie, I am shocked and appalled that you think I would ever.”

“Please, like you weren’t imagining my legs in a miniskirt five seconds ago.”

“You’ve seen Steve, right?” Tony says. “Why on earth would I imagine you when I could imagine him?” Clint concedes that it’s a fair point, but he does not want to think about the sheriff in a miniskirt. That way madness lies. Best to change the subject.

“Whose even is this rustbucket, anyway?” Clint asks.

“Oh, that old monster is Barnes’ pride and joy,” Tony says.  Clint drops the wrench he’s holding with a clang. “I think she’s called Lucy. He doesn’t often let me look at her, does most of the upkeep himself. I think the last time I saw her, was when I was fitting her out with the accessibility stuff, which I had to jazz up one hell of a lot. Have you seen the stuff they’re claiming is ‘cutting edge’ these days? Nonsense, the lot of it.”

“Fuck, Tony!” Clint exclaims, cutting off what was promising to be quite a rant. “You’ve got me… the guy hates my guts. Why would you have me working on his truck? I’ll probably screw it up and that’ll give him even more reason to hate me.”

“Why would you screw it up?” Tony asks, looking honestly confused.

“I’m not a mechanic,” Clint says, holding his hands up and backing away from the vehicle. Sure he’s not done much, but Tony’s had him cut things and hit things and… in the cab. He could have broken something. He doesn’t know how the accessibility whatsits work, what if he fucked them up when he was in there a minute ago?

“I wouldn’t have let you touch it if I didn’t think you knew what you were doing.”

“Shit, Tony. You don’t even _know_ me,” Clint tells him. “I’m an idiot and I’m clumsy. I break shit all the time.”

“Pretty sure you’re not an idiot, Rockin’ Robin,” Tony says, looking amused at Clint’s horror. “And who doesn’t break things? I break things all the time. It’s an excuse to put them back together better.” Clint looks at the bits and pieces scattered on the concrete floor in the corner, some project or other that Tony’s working on, the fragments of what had once been a car.

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” he says. “But if I screw this up…”

“You weren’t worried about screwing it up before you knew it was his,” Tony says. There’s an undercurrent to his voice that makes Clint’s insides squirm. “What’s the big deal now?”

“He hates me,” Clint repeats, though he knows he sounds defensive. And that's not really true anymore. Bucky's been... nice recently, and Clint's starting to think that the physical attraction is at least a little mutual.

“First, birdbrain, no he doesn’t. I’ve see Barnes hate people before. It tends to be… messier.” There’s a story there that Clint tells himself he doesn’t need to know. “Second, you’re telling me no one’s ever disliked you before? Gotta say I can’t really believe that. Have you met you? You’re kind of an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one,” Clint retaliates, making Tony grin. Fine, maybe he is being defensive.

“Never claimed not to be, but seriously, what is it about Barnes that gets under your skin?”

 _The way I want him to shove me up against a wall and attack me – with his mouth._ Clint things, but he just shrugs.

“Dunno,” he says after a moment. “Doesn’t matter anyway, though. I won’t be here long enough for it to matter.”

“Yeah, you’ve got to meet up with your brother,” Tony says. He sounds dubious, which has Clint’s hackles rising again in an instant. Why does no one around here believe him? “How’s that going?"

Clint bites down his response and glares at the truck – Lucy, or whatever. He holds his tongue and shrugs.

If he’s honest with himself – and mostly he tries not to be, because being honest with himself is just depressing – he doesn’t know how it’s going. Barney hasn’t found him yet, that much is for sure. Or maybe he knows exactly where Clint is, but it’s not safe enough for him to get in touch.

He refuses to entertain the thought that maybe Barnes hasn’t come to get him yet because he can’t. That maybe when they couldn’t find Clint, they found Barney instead. Barney’s smart; he knows how to take care of himself. Barney’s fine and one day he’ll just turn up and ask Clint what the fuck he was thinking. That’s usually how it goes.

Not that Clint’s ever been in this exact position before, but there’s a certain pattern to his past.

He’s saved from any more of Tony’s questions about his brother by the creak of a door opening and he turns in relief to see who has arrived.

Except it’s not a person who’s walked in. It’s a… dog? It looks like a dog. It’s the colour of a golden retriever, but its ears are pointed like a huskie’s, and it’s about as tall as Clint’s chest. It’s a monster of a thing. He blinks, but its still real, and as it comes closer it becomes clear that there is no trick of perspective here, the thing really is as big as it first seemed.

Clint had thought his wolf was huge, but this.

“They breed ’em big out here, huh?” he says. Tony turns and grins broadly at the animal, not surprised in the least to see him.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” he says with a smirk. “So good of you to join us.”

“That’s yours?” Clint asks, because really, if he’d been pushed, he would have said Tony was a cat person. He seemed like he’d be more comfortable with a pet that did as it wished, rather than an animal that needed walking and attention.

“Oh yea, he’s mine,” Tony says. He sounds almost like he’s laughing, and the dog walks up to him and sits down, its tongue lolling out of its mouth, like it’s in on the joke. It looks at Clint as it pushes its head into Tony’s hand and barks once, short but happy. “Come to check up on me, have you?” Tony asks, looking down at the enormous head. The dog cocks its head to one side and huffs. He stands up and walks over to Clint, who offers his hand for a sniff. The dog takes him up on the offer, then gives Clint’s fingers a warm lick and Clint laughs in delight.

“I didn’t know you had a dog,” he says, giving the dog – Captain – a scratch behind the ears, which he pushes into, closing his eyes and wagging his tail with a thump-thump-thump against the ground. Clint wonders if he could try this with his wolf. He had petted him when he was in the trap, but that wasn’t exactly normal circumstances.

If his wolf ever comes back, that is.

“Might be more accurate to say he has me,” Tony says with a chuckle.

“He’s massive,” Clint says, and Tony laughs again.

“Yeah, he’s a big boy. There’s a bit of wolf in him, but I like ‘em big.”

The dog huffs again, turning to walk back to Tony, apparently content with the attention that Clint has shown him.

“I guess, when you live in a small town like this, it’s the perfect place for a big dog,” Clint tells him. “Not enough space in the city.” And a steady address so you didn’t have to keep dragging the poor creature around after you, that had always been the problem with the circus. That and another mouth to feed. If you didn’t pull your weight, you didn’t come, it was that simple. There was no room for frivolous things like pets. Their animals were working animals.

“No,” Tony agrees, stroking Captain almost absently. “That’s part of the reason I moved out here. I used to live in New York.”

“And you moved all the way out here to get a dog?” Clint asks. It’s not like Clint doesn’t agree with the sentiment, but it seems like a long way to go. There are places far closer to New York Tony could have gone to.

“I moved all the way out here to keep this one,” Tony says. Clint frowns, because he’s pretty sure that’s not how dog ownership works. But Tony’s petting the dog’s fur and its tail is wagging happily as it gazes up at him with its big doggy eyes. So who is he to reason why. None of his business. He doesn’t want anyone prying into his tragic backstory, so he should probably stay out of Tony’s.

“Anyway,” Tony says. “Before this attention hog came in, you were telling me all about your ill-advised crush on our resident broody barkeep.”

Clint’s pretty sure that’s not what they were talking about. Particularly because it’s not even a little bit true. Clint’s maybe a little bit in lust, because he’s terminally attracted to people who hate him. Like the blonde who’d joined the carnival for one season. She had been gorgeous, and she’d known how to throw a knife. She’d also been convinced that Clint was the devil incarnate.

So maybe he’d like to see Bucky Barnes naked. And maybe he’d like to have some really hot hate sex with him. That’s a perfectly reasonable and adult thing to want.

It doesn’t mean that it’s a crush.

He looks at the truck.

Clint becomes aware that Tony’s dog is watching him now, apparently something more interesting than his human has come along. There is something wrong with the animals in this town. They all look so _knowing_ , like they can understand English or something, which is ridiculous, because they’re animals. There’s a look in their eyes like they know what he’s thinking. It’s unnerving.

“I don’t have a crush,” he says, as much to the staring dog as to Tony. “And we’re doing this now?”

“Got the feeling you didn’t want to talk about your family,” Tony says with a shrug. “Talking about how you stare at Barnes like you want to lick him from head to toe seemed like a good compromise. And the point stands that when it was any old truck you were working on, you were fine. As soon as you find out it belongs to Barnes, you’re having an attack of the vapours.”

“I did not,” Clint says.

“You were like a woman in a Romantic novel, your bosom was heaving, you were getting all fluttery,” Tony says.

“Read a lot of romantic novels?” Clint asks.

“Yes,” Tony answers immediately. “Back to the point, you find out it’s Barnes’ truck, you become convinced that you’ll fuck it up. There’s a strong correlation there.”

“I was already convinced I’d fuck it up,” Clint says. “I’ve got one thing I’m good at and this–” he waves around at the workshop “–is not it.”

“Pretty sure that’s a load of crap,” Tony says as his dog, sensing the distress, comes over to Clint and puts one huge paw up on his leg, it’s almost as wide as Clint’s thigh. “I mean,” Tony continues, “you’re a savant at pool, you’ve made the guesthouse look like it’s an actual building, not just a heap of half-rotten wood, and you’ve proven to be a not-totally-incompetent assistant, which is not faint praise coming from me. You’ve even made some halfway intelligent replies to things I’ve said.”

“Pool’s easy. You just point the cue in the right direction.”

“And calculate angles of incidence, force of thrust, and spin,” Tony adds.

“I don’t know about all of that,” Clint says with a shrug. That all sounds very complicated for a game that’s just bouncing balls into holes. “Guess I just know my way around a stick and some balls,” he says, giving a grin. “And the guesthouse is just… manual labour. Even a dumb hick like me can do manual labour.”

“Pretty sure it’s actually called carpentry and people spend years in apprenticeships trying to work it out,” Tony counters. “You need to stop with this self-criticising bullshit, Pevensie. You’ve got skills. Be proud of them.”

“Oh I know I’ve got skills,” Clint says, crossing his arms. “I’m just saying that you haven’t seen them yet.” Now if Tony saw what he could do with a bow, then he’d understand that the rest is just… getting by. Clint can get by at a whole host of things, but he only really shines with a bow in his hands.

“Well, maybe try showing off a bit,” Tony says. “The poor dumb hick act is getting old.”

Clint shifts uncomfortably for a second. This is getting too close to things he would rather not reveal.

“Should we… get back to work?” he asks, nodding at the truck. “Make sure Barnes doesn’t skin me alive.”

“Pretty sure it’s not your skin he wants to rip off,” Tony says wickedly.

“Pretty sure that’s not as sexy sounding as you think,” Clint replies without looking.

“Ow, hey, what was that for?” Tony says, the volume of his voice dropping. “Fine, Cap. I’ll stop interfering. You’re a very demanding dog, you know that? Oh, don’t give me that look.”

Clint ignores them and picks up the wrench he dropped earlier, waiting for Tony to get back to where they were.

*

When Bucky walks into the diner, he spots Robin practically communing with a burger. He’s got grease running down his chin and pickle on his top lip. His cheeks are bulging out and it should probably be the least attractive he’s ever seen the man, but for some reason it makes Bucky smile.

There are also the exaggerated yummy noises he’s making, which aren’t even obscene, they’re just ridiculous.

Bucky’s been getting used to the urge to bend Robin over the nearest surface and make him scream. The surge of affection, though, that’s new.

It’s Monday evening, so the bar’s closed and Bucky has the luxury of a leisurely evening. Cooking is too much effort and the diner’s right there. Vizh isn’t even on the grill tonight.

“Hey, tall, dark and steely-eyed,” Darcy says. “What can I get for you?”

“The burgers look good,” he says, looking back at Robin who seems to be reciting some sort of love poem to his burger now. Darcy follows his gaze.

“Yeah. I have no idea how he fits so much in his mouth,” she says, shaking her head. “I keep thinking he’s going to choke and I’m going to be trying to explain to the health and safety officer that it was all his own fault. But as far as I can tell, he has no gag reflex. It’s a scientific miracle.”

Bucky really doesn’t want to think about Robin Pevensie’s gag reflex or lack thereof. He glares as Darcy winks at him and tries to suppress his imagination.

“So you want a burger then?” she asks.

“Nah, my usual, thanks.” Bucky says and she grins, writing it down on a scrap of paper.

“Coming right up!”

Bucky debates whether he should sit on his own, a couple of weeks ago he would, but he’s trying to be ‘nice’.

“Think I’ll sit with the scientific miracle,” he says in the end.

“What, you like him now? I thought you had sworn your entire bloodline to his destruction.” She raises her eyebrow.

“I wasn’t that bad,” Bucky protests.

“You were all murder eyes,” Darcy says.

“Well, maybe he’s not that bad.”

“’Not that bad’ be careful, hot stuff, or people will start getting ideas.” She waggles her eyebrows. Bucky just shakes his head and turns to walk away.

“You’re breaking my heart, Bucky Bear,” she calls after him, but he doesn’t turn, just walks over to where Robin’s sitting and slides in opposite him. When Robin catches sight of him, he tries to speak around his mouthful of burger before he even thinks about it. He swallows quickly.

“Hi Bucky!” he says, beaming. “What’s up?”

“Just dinner. Thought I’d keep you company.”

“Yeah? Sam and Nat are having date night, so they couldn’t come. Sucks to be them, though, because these are good burgers. These are the best.” He looks down at the half burger left on his plate like he wants to marry it. He lifts it reverently to his mouth and takes another huge mouthful.

“They’re good,” Bucky says, “but they’re not the best.” Robin makes a lot of angry noises and waves his free hand emphatically. Bucky has no idea what he’s actually saying, but the gist is pretty clear. He shakes his head. “The best thing on the menu is...”

Darcy’s timing is perfect as she comes to place the stack of pancakes and the side of bacon on the table in front of him, finishing up with a flourish as she drops off the jug of syrup.

“Your dinner, sir,” she says.

“Thanks, Darce,” he says. She gives him a little salute.

He looks down at his dinner and smiles.

“Is that a smiley face?” Robin asks, twisting his neck to try and see.

“Made out of blueberries,” Bucky confirms.

“That’s adorable,” Robin says, smiling at Bucky. “Do you have to order that special or is it standard?”

“Who wouldn’t want a smiley face in their pancakes?” Bucky asks, pouring the syrup over carefully, like he always does.

“Eric does it just for him,” Darcy says.

“I’m special,” Bucky tells him, unashamed. Robin’s still smiling at him and it’s a smaller, more private, thing than before. He smells like contentment when Bucky inhales. It’s good for him. This whole place seems to have been good for him. And trouble hasn’t followed him yet.

Bucky kind of hopes it never does. But if it does, then he’s starting to hope that it finds Robin when he’s still in Timely, because the sort of trouble he’s been talking about, he’s going to need back up. Bucky just hopes his brother’s up to the task.

“You like your pancakes with smiley faces,” Robin repeats.

“Got a problem with that?” Bucky asks, taking his first fluffy, syrupy bite. Eric makes damn good pancakes.

“Just never thought I’d see your gooey centre,” Robin says. “It’s nice.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Bucky says, brandishing a fork across the table. “I’d hate to have to kill you.”

“Who’m I gonna tell?” Robin asks. “Everyone here already knows all about you. But I still think the burger’s better.”

“Really?” Bucky asks. “You haven’t even tried the pancakes.”

Robin’s hand darts out across the table, and he grabs a scrap of pancake from the side of Bucky’s plate before Bucky can stop him, and shoves it into his mouth. A little dribble of syrup and blueberry juice trickles from the corner of his lips and Bucky watches it – and Robin’s lips – as a pink tongue darts out to lick it clean. He can feel his temperature rising and he’s starting to regret the extra syrup.

“You’re right, these are good pancakes,” Robin says, licking his lips again, trying to chase the taste. Bucky swallows, his mouth dry. He’s suddenly hyperaware of everything: the way the electric light is shining off Robin’s lips and hair, which is a mess, as usual. Bucky’s not thinking of sinking his fingers into it and tugging just a little bit. He can feel the heat of Robin’s legs under the table as well, so close that if Bucky sank down just a little in his seat, they’d be touching. And washing over all that, there’s the scent of his own rising arousal and Robin as well, mixed with the sweet scent of blueberries.

They are staring at each other and Bucky could swear that’s not just his arousal he can smell. The moment stretches out and he thinks that maybe something is about to happen. There is potential in this gaze, and the heat is ratchetting up.

The blare of his ringtone and the buzz of his phone in his pocket, makes him jump, shocking him out of it, and the moment collapses in on itself and disappears into a might have been.

Robin blinks too, shaking his head and looking around startled, like he was right there.

The caller ID says Steve, which is probably for the best. It means Bucky’s got to take this.

“Bucky,” Steve says. His voice is tense. “You may have been right about that coyote.”

Bucky swears and stands up, pushing his plate over to Robin’s side of the table. He pulls the phone away and nods to Robin.

“You can finish these. I’ve got to run.” He doesn’t wait for a reply before striding out of the diner.

“What’s happening, Steve?”

“Got a scent to the west of town. Another pack,” Steve says. “They smell angry.”

“Coyotes?”

“Not all of them, no wolves though. Seems to be a large pack of coyotes and some wild dog shifters. This could get ugly.”

“They know better than to enter another pack’s territory without permission,” Bucky says.

“If we’ve got a fugitive from their pack in our territory and they think we’re helping them –“ Steve doesn’t have to finish the sentence. It’s not a good situation. Bucky fucking knew that coyote was trouble. Begging for food. And the lack of scent. “I’m going to try to set up a parley, but I don’t know who they are or where they’re from. I don’t even know what they’re after, really. It might be a coincidence. They might not even abide by the Pact; you know a lot of non-wolf types dislike it.”

A political nightmare, Bucky summarises internally. Just what they didn’t need.

“What can I do?”

“Get the word out. I’m imposing curfew for everyone who doesn’t want to come to the parley. Shut it down.”

“Curfew? You sure?” Bucky stops in the street, looking around. It’s still early evening and the town’s pretty busy with people going about their business. The bar may be closed, but the rest of town is still awake. Getting everyone off the streets calmly is going to be an undertaking.

“Yeah,” Steve says. He sounds tired, but he’ll last. Steve never backs down when he’s needed. Sometimes Bucky wishes he hadn’t decided to fight for the Alpha position, it’s been nothing but trouble for him, but at the same time, Timely’s better with him in the lead, and Steve was made to lead. He’s more himself than he’s ever been. “There are a lot of them, Buck. We can’t afford to take chances.”

“I know that, I’m just surprised you do,” Bucky tells him. “I’ll see that people know. Then I’ll meet you for the parley. Where?”

“The Moon Clearing,” Steve says. Bucky rolls his eyes. Steve may be saying he’ll do this by the book, but holding a parley in the Moon Clearing, where the pack scent is strongest, is passive aggression at its finest.

“I’ll meet you there.” Bucky hangs up the phone and looks around. This is going to be interesting.

He’s right. People don’t want to go, or they want to have a gossip about what’s happening. It’s only his unofficial position as one of the Alpha’s seconds that makes people listen to him at all. It takes a bit of work, but soon everyone’s either going inside to wait it out, or heading out to the Moon Clearing to witness the parley.

He’s knocked on doors and rounded people up, getting others to help him out, and he thinks he’s pretty much got everyone when he sees a lone figure walking down Main Street, looking around in confusion.

“Robin?” he asks, hurrying over.

“Bucky?” Robin says, turning round. “Where did everyone go? Is my watch wrong? I didn’t think it was that late.”

“It’s not,” Bucky says, glancing around the quiet town. The curfew is probably overkill, but if the pack out there doesn’t abide by the Pact, then a human, wandering the streets alone, is going to stick out like a sore thumb. “Sheriff’s imposed a curfew.”

“That’s what you got the call about?” Robin asks. “Curfew?”

“There’s a pack of wild dogs in the area,” he says, editing the truth as best he can. “Animal control’s concerned they might turn dangerous. I’ll take you back to the guesthouse.”

“O...kay...” Pevensie says, squinting at him a bit, but Bucky keeps his face calm and blank.

It doesn’t take them long to get back to the guesthouse, but as they reach the door, the barking begins. A show of aggression. Bucky all but shoves Robin through the door.

“Stay inside. And lock the windows and doors,” Bucky says. It won’t keep the scent of human from escaping completely, but it should make it less obvious.

“What about Sam and Natasha?” Robin asks, looking around at the empty guesthouse.

“They’re probably stuck somewhere else,” Bucky says – in the Moon Clearing, with Steve, where Bucky should be right now. But if Robin doesn’t stay put. The other pack doesn’t sound like it’s messing around. “Stay here.” He says.

“What about you?” Robin asks next.

“I’m good. Stay!” He pushes Robin back into the building again and shuts the door. “Now lock it.”

There is a howl. Bucky would recognise it anywhere: _Steve_.

Bucky’s got somewhere else to be. He’s got to hope that Robin’s sensible enough to stay put.

He strips and shifts as soon as he’s out of sight of the guesthouse and into the woods. It’s faster to run in wolf-shape.

He can smell them all now, stronger and more pungent with every bound he takes towards the clearing. The smell is acid and _not pack_ and it makes his nose burn. He can smell the pack, too, and Steve, stronger than the others, as always.

The baying of the other pack crescendos and then cuts off, leaving eerie echoing silence in its wake, and just as Bucky gets to the clearing. The pack makes way for him, and he comes up next to Steve, his silent, deadly shadow. He sees the alpha coyote take note of him, his size and his missing leg.

There are coyotes, dingoes, a hyena or two even in the other pack, it’s a mish-mash of the smaller shifters. Even a couple of foxes, here and there.

Natasha is not visible. No doubt she is keeping an eye on things from elsewhere.

Tony’s right there, though. Probably wouldn’t take no for an answer, stubborn human that he is, and Steve has no qualms with showing how inclusive their pack is. Bucky just hopes the other pack doesn’t say anything about it, because Steve does not like people insulting his mate.

Steve throws back his head and howls once more, a call to all the pack that the parley is about to begin.

It’s a clear howl, that resonates through Bucky’s bones. He almost joins in, but this is not the time. This is the time for Steve to be the alpha.

The howl fades away and Steve sits upright, bringing his face down to look at the coyote alpha and the rest of the packs falls silent.

*

Clint’s not much good at following orders. He thinks too much. It’s a problem. Nor is he much good at staying put when he’s pretty sure people he cares about are in danger. The barking continues, baying of hellhounds it sounds like, resonating through the whole town.

He’s really beginning to wonder whether there’s some sort of cult thing going on here. It would explain so much.

He could just sit here and wait it out, lock himself in like Bucky told him to, and see what’s left tomorrow morning, but that sounds kind of crap.

He’s not about to let hellhounds invade and rip his friends to shreds, not if he can do something about it.

Mind made up, Clint grabs his bow and his quiver and goes out the window onto the roof of the porch and then swings himself into the nearest tree. He’s got a head for heights and a well-trained sense of balance. It helps that the forest is dense, with the trees standing close enough together that stepping from branch to branch is simple.

He feels a bit like Legolas, hunting orcs.

The wind is blowing directly in his face as he moves towards the noises, up the north-west of the town.

Then the barking stops, suddenly and completely, leaving echoing, hollow silence in its wake.

Then the howling begins. It echoes strangely off the trees, so at times it seems like the noise is coming from all around him, like he’s surrounded. Looking down, there’s still enough light for him to see the churn of pawprints in the ground, all heading in the same direction.

He follows them, swinging his bow over his shoulder when he needs to hold on with both hands.

Eventually, he sees something, a canine shape, running through the trees, and another, and another.

It seems like everywhere he looks there is another animal.

His breath stops in his chest. This must be the pack of wild dogs, although he thinks he sees some bigger shapes further off in the murky shadows of the woods. There’s a flash of something that looks like gold, and might be Tony’s dog, Captain, out here as well.

He had thought the woods were full of wolves before, but that was nothing compared to this. His heart is hammering in his chest. They look like predators, and they look fast. If they spot him, he’s not going to be able to get away. He’d be stuck in this tree until they chose to leave him alone. Sure he could take some of them out, but there are more of them than he has arrows.

There is no sign of Bucky, or Sam or Natasha. They are not out here. There isn’t another human being out here as far as he can see, and Clint is regretting this decision.

He waits for the dogs to disappear into the gloom ahead of him, heading for something he doesn’t want to know about, no doubt, and he watches them go, looking for any sign of people nearby. The light is dimming and the moon is barely more than a crescent. Even Clint’s eyesight isn’t a match for the woods at night.

But the howling has stopped, and Bucky’s nowhere to be seen.

He was probably running off to check on someone, not out to… Clint doesn’t know what he thought Bucky was running off to do. Fight dogs? Fight people with dogs? Sacrifice someone to his demonic deity?

Weird as these dogs are, there’s not going to be a lot for Clint to see in a minute. And last time he tried aerials in the dark, he ended up with broken ribs and a broken foot, so it’s probably best not to take chances.

He only slips a couple of times on the way back, the rapidly encroaching dark playing tricks on him, but Clint catches himself in time before he falls too far. His hands are scraped up and his stomach will be bruised to hell and back, but he’ll survive.

He goes back in through his window, just like he went out, and sets his bow back down, listening as the dogs begin to bark again, the sound pouring in through the open window. He shuts and locks it, trying to ignore the empty house and the memory of the dark shapes, so many of them, flowing through the forest. He hopes Animal Control knows what they are doing.

*

Clint needs a place to think. This town is growing stranger and stranger. Bucky is… well, a question mark he really didn’t need, and he swears that people keep changing the subject whenever he enters a room. It’s not always obvious, especially if Natasha’s involved, but there’s a certain shiftiness about it.

He can feel the paranoia creeping back in, and he needs to get away from it all, above it all, somewhere where he can breathe, somewhere the buildings don’t look down at him in judgement and the only pressure valves aren’t the spindly side streets.

He needs to be high up.

The tallest building is town is the library. He’s been in there a couple of times because, contrary to popular opinion, he can actually read. The librarian, Ms Carter, is a stern woman who could probably stop a man’s heart just by looking at him. She’d given him a strange look when he’d spent an hour sitting in the reference section reading about the different types of wolf that are native to the United States, but she hadn’t seemed upset about it, just cautious. Like the rest of this town.

But he’s not going in today, he doesn’t want to feel the oppression of knowledge pushing down on him. He needs a seat with a view.

Climbing buildings isn’t that difficult, if you know what you’re doing. There are dozens of handholds when you know what you’re looking for, and if you have the technique right, you can scamper right up, as elegant as you like.

Of course, Clint’s not really an acrobat, so his technique’s about a three out of ten, but he makes it to the roof and he feels the sky opening up above him, looks out on either side and sees the horizons spread out, a full 360 of them. The trees stretch as far as the eye can see, once you look past the town, a sea of dark green reaching out to the bright blue. Small, fluffy clouds, drift lazily in the blue sky, sometimes skimming in front of the brilliant sun.

And in the town, closer to home, he can see people going about their daily routines, walking their dogs, talking to their neighbours, popping into the store for some toilet roll or a popsicle. Children queuing up for ice-creams.

He heaves a huge breath, tasting the air. He knows that it can’t be that much different up here from how it is down there, there’s barely three storeys of difference, but at the same time… it tastes sweeter.

It’s all in his head, but it doesn’t matter because he can _see_.

Clint hadn’t known how he missed his bird’s eye view of the world until now. There’s been no sitting on the platforms near the top of the big top, no climbing to the very top of the poles. Everything has been ground level for so long. How has he even coped?

He crouches on the edge of the building and spots people he knows. There’s Deputy Natasha with her ponytail swinging, dealing with two people who seem to be arguing over a hairdryer. Darcy Lewis, from the diner, is dragging Dr Jane – the vet – along the side walk as Thor pushes her from behind. She’s laughing though, so he doesn’t think she’s that upset about the situation.

Peter is sitting on a bench by the hairdresser bobbing his head as he scribbles in a notebook, there’s another kid next to him, who seems to be talking, but keeps getting distracted by stuff around them.

The sheriff and Bucky are…

Nope, Clint’s not going there, he shifts his focus. The entire point of coming up here was to avoid thinking about-

His thoughts skid to a halt as something moves out of the corner of his eye, and his head snaps round, wondering if Ms Carter has climbed all the way up here to give him a piece of his mind. Maybe she has. He can feel himself deflating at the very idea. She reminds him of one of the teachers he’d once known at school – the one who had sat him down to ask if everything was alright at home, and clearly not been happy with the answer he had given. She seems terrifyingly efficient and brutally determined. He’s not sure he’d be able to handle her telling him off. He’d probably spill all of his secrets.

But there is no sign of a person when he turns his head, or anything else either. His ears are not having one of their better days, so even when he strains them, he can’t hear anything other than the general background rush of wind, or maybe that’s tinnitus.

But still, Clint’s eyes are usually right. His ears may play tricks on him, but his eyes he trusts. If he saw something moving then something was moving.

He stands slowly and begins to pace.

There’s one of those little access rooms built into the roof, where they put generators and air conditioning units, the kind of place that only gets accessed by people who need to do readings. It’s the only place to hide, because the rest of the roof is pretty empty, apart from the roof access door, and he’d been looking right at that.

Clint has no idea what he’s expecting as he pulls open the door, a raccoon, maybe, or a possum, some intrepid animal that had made its way up onto the roof to make its home.

He definitely did not expect to see two kids peering out of the darkness at him, nestled among the pipes and cables.

There’s not a whole lot of space in there. It’s dark and cramped and uncomfortable looking, although it seems like they’ve made a nest, covered in… is that Sam’s jacket?

And there the pair of them are, in the middle of it all, a girl and a boy, in their mid teens if he had to guess, staring up at him with huge eyes. For a second, as he steps forwards, it’s as if they catch the sun wrong, and their eyes seem to glow, but it’s only a split seconds and he shakes off the strangeness of it. They’re kids, not monsters.

“Hi,” he says, because that’s always a good place to start, and from the looks on their faces, they might try to run at the slightest provocation. “Looks like you found a good spot.”

The girl looks at him in confusion, and the boy’s eyes narrow.

“What you staring at, old man?” the boy asks. The girl shoots him a warning look.

“You guys know it’s more comfortable over at the guesthouse, right? They’ve got beds and everything,” Clint says. “It’s even warm and dry.”

“We’re fine,” the boy says, leaning back, away from Clint. Clint looks at the girl instead and she’s watching him with cautious, thoughtful eyes.

“I know it looks like a dump, but it’s actually really nice,” Clint continues. He knows what it’s like to be stuck outside in the cold, huddling together for warmth. “There’s even foo-” He breaks off as several things click into place in his mind. “But you already know that, don’t you?” he says. “Aw hell… you’re the ones who’ve been taking the food from the kitchen – and the diner.”

Next thing he knows, the boy’s got a hand fisted in the collar of Clint’s t-shirt, yanking him forwards. Clint does not go elegantly, and the sound he makes as his arms windmill round is somewhere between a yelp and a gurgle.

“You won’t tell anyone,” the boy hisses. “You tell anyone we will–”

The girls puts a hand on the boy’s arm. It looks gentle enough, but it freezes him in his tracks.

“We do not want to hurt anyone,” she says solemnly. Clint notices that she doesn’t say ‘won’t’. “We have no money and we are trying to get to the city, to see our Aunt, but I fell sick.”

“I get that,” Clint says.

“You?” the boy asks dismissively “You are too fat to understand hunger.”

“Hey! This is all muscle,” Clint says. The boy makes a scoffing sound and Clint flexes his biceps, because he’s not about to have some kid talking to him like that. Sure his exercise routine has been a bit… non-existent since coming to Timely, but all the wood he’s been carrying and sawing for the guesthouse has kept him in shape. Maybe his abs aren’t as defined as they had been, but he’s still got muscle. And he’s not old either. “Look. Sam, the guy who owns the guesthouse – he’s great. I couldn’t pay so he let me fix the place up instead. He’s not going to let you starve. If you come back with me, I’ll explain.”

“No!” They speak in unison.

“No one else,” the girl says. “We…” Clint catches a look of fear in her eyes for a split second, and the boy must sense something because he releases Clint to wrap an arm around her shoulders.

“Ah,” Clint says, because maybe he understands that look a little better than he’d like. That’s the look of someone who’s running from something. “Gotcha. So how can I help?”

They stare at him in bewilderment.

“You want some blankets? “ He offers. “I can get you some food so you don’t have to steal and risk getting caught. I can even… fix that hole in the roof if you want, If you’re sure you don’t want to come inside.

“We know that trick,” the boy says, his voice sharp and hard. “We come with you, you call the sheriff. I’ve seen you talking to him.”

“I’m not going to–” Clint says. “Look, the sheriff’s a cool guy, but I know a thing or two about not talking to the cops, okay?”

They both look at him suspiciously.

“Let’s try this again,” Clint says. “Hi, I’m Clint, nice to meet you.”

“I’m Wanda, this is my brother Pietro,” the girl says, smiling slowly. “It’s nice to meet you, Clint. Although I thought your name was Robin.”

Oops. There goes his secret identity.

“Like I said, I know a little about not talking to the cops,” he says with a shrug. “So what is it that you need? I swear, I’m not judging. Once, I ate out of dumpsters for like a week.”

“That’s disgusting,” Pietro says, wrinkling his nose.

“Nothing’s disgusting when you’re hungry enough,” Clint says. “I get it, okay. You have to feed yourself; you have to feed each other. Siblings stick together. It’s good.”

“It’s stealing,” Pietro says. His sister’s still just watching Clint shrewdly. She might be quiet, but Clint gets the impression that she sees a lot. It’s a bit unnerving, but she seems like a good kid.

“A few bits of food?” Clint scoffs. “Yeah, you’re really a hardened criminal, kid.”

“Not a kid,” Pietro insists.

“How old are you? 12?” Clint asks. The pair of them look to be closer to sixteen, but Clint was born ready to piss people off. Especially a little kid who calls him an old man.

“We’re eighteen,” Pietro says, trying to stand up straighter. That’s a lie if Clint’s ever heard one.

“If you say so, kid. Anyway, I can help you. I’ll grab some food. No one’ll even bat an eye.”

“They’ll track you,” Pietro says.

“Why would they?” Clint asks. “Seriously, I thought I was paranoid. Just let me handle it. You’re lucky you haven’t got caught so far. Sneaking into houses? That’s dangerous.”

“I’m very fast.”

“And the next guy whose house you sneak into might be just as fast with a shotgun,” Clint says. “And now I’m helping, you don’t need to risk that.”

“Why?” Wanda asks. “Why would you help us?”

Clint rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Because I might not know exactly what brought you guys here, but I have been there – or somewhere like it – and it sucks. And I know that sometimes what you think is going to save you ends up being just a different sort of bad.”

“Boo hoo,” Pietro says. “You don’t know crap, old man.” He crosses his arms and turns to give his sister a classic ‘look at this guy’ glance, but Wanda is focused on Clint, staring at him like she can see straight through him. Clint resists the overwhelming urge to look away and holds her gaze.

“Thank you,” she says. Pietro gapes at her.

“No! You can’t believe him. He’s going to tell them. We can’t trust him.”

Wanda turns to him.

“We can’t go through all of our lives trusting no one,” she says quietly. “We won’t be in town long. As I said before, we are trying to get to our aunt, in the city, where I can study and Pietro can find a job. We will only be in town a few more days, at most, until we are sure it’s safe to continue and the coast is clear.”

“You’re hiding from someone?” Clint asks. “I can keep an eye out for you.”

“No,” she says, and her tone is very final. “They will not enter the sheriff’s territory, it would cause problems for them. The sheriff would not like it.” She doesn’t seem worried about it, although her reasoning seems odd. But Clint guesses that they know the people who are after them better than he does. Maybe it’s some type of gang thing.

“If you’re sure,” he says. “What do you need – aside from food and drink?”

Pietro grumbles through the whole thing, but eventually he and Wanda manage to give Clint a list of things they need and they arrange that Clint will hand them over tomorrow.

So Clint’s on hunter-gatherer duty. Before he goes, though, Wanda reaches out and tucks something into the breast pocket of his t-shirt. It’s a plant, a sprig with several purple bell like flowers coming off it. It’s kind of pretty.

“Thanks,” he says. It’s a nice shade of bluish purple.

“Aconite,” Wanda says. “It will protect you from the wolves.”

“The wolves?” Clint asks. “Great. I mean, they mostly live outside the town, and one of them is sort of my buddy. Well… he hangs around sometimes. Not sure you can be friends with a wolf. There’s a bit of a language barrier.”

She smiles, it looks almost involuntary, but it brightens her face and Clint knows he’s screwed because he’s already got enough on his plate, but these kids need something that’ll keep them smiling like that.

“He doesn’t know shit,” Pietro says. “He’s got no clue.”

“He’ll work it out,” Wanda says. “He’s smarter than he seems and the aconite will protect him.”

It’s a bit awkward, being talking about like he’s not there, and Clint doesn’t think he needs protection, not from the wolves at any rate. Now, if she’s got a pretty purple flower that will help him with angry former coworkers looking for their money, then he’ll take it. But, weird as it seems, she’s trying to help.

“Thanks,” he repeats. “So I’ll drop the stuff off tomorrow.” He gives them a little wave, then heads back down off the library roof to ground level, letting the buildings swallow up the sky again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last five chapters should be up tomorrow evening, after I've had a chance to read through them once more. Thanks for being so patient!


	7. The Truth Will Out

Clint figures that the easiest place to go for food is the guesthouse. It’s where he has most of his meals, and Sam has pretty much given him the run of the place. He swallows down the slight twinges of guilt he feels by remembering those kids huddled in the roof. They need to eat. Sam can spare the food.

As he’s heading towards the kitchen door, though, he hears voices.

It’s not that he wants to eavesdrop. It’s not like he’s even very good at eavesdropping, because he can only pick up the loud bits and the bits that aren’t too high pitched or too low pitched. It’s more that by the time he gets to the door, what he hears makes him pause.

“-don’t want a fight,” Natasha says. “They just want their property and […] on their way.”

He freezes with his hand halfway to the doorknob. His heart beats in doubletime, his breath catches in his throat. This sounds bad. He turns so his less dodgy ear is directed to the door. He can’t imagine Steve or Natasha doing a deal with Jacques, but if anyone knows that people aren’t always what they seem, it’s Clint. And if they are…

He can’t believe that Jacques found him before Barney. They found him and now he’s dragged the whole town into this mess just like Bucky predicted he would.

“People aren’t property!” Steve says, his outrage loud enough for anyone to hear. That answers the question of whether Jacques just wants his money back, then. Clint guesses it was too much to hope that they’d be appeased with half the reward.

“They are to them […] how they think. I know […]” Natasha says.

“So do I,” Bucky agrees. “They don’t […]” his voice drops too low for Clint to hear and Clint moves closer as quietly as he can, straining to catch any sound.

“We’re not handing anyone over,” Steve says. Clint pumps the air silently. Steve is on his side. He could kiss him.

“- safety […] town, Steve,” Natasha says. Her voice is cautious. “We don’t even […] worth the safety of […]” She’s talking so quietly now that Clint can only hear snatches, but then Steve interrupts her, and even Clint can hear him. He’s not exactly being quiet.

“And what good’s my badge worth? Your badge worth? What good’s any of that worth if we hand over people to be treated like property, Nat? We’ve built this place on the idea that everyone is worth something and everybody protects each other. If we go against that now, just because it might help us avoid some trouble, then we can’t pretend to believe in those values anymore.”

“They’re not-” Natasha says.

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve says, cutting her off. “We don’t know what’s going on exactly, but I know a bad situation when I see one, and that’s a bad situation. I’d never send anyone somewhere they’d be hurt, let alone two children.”

Clint stares at the knotted lines of the wooden door for a moment, unable to unpick what he just heard. Children? Two children? What does that have to do with anything? There are no children involved. Clint hasn’t been a minor since…

Then he remembers: Wanda and Pietro. The reason he came back here in the first place. They’re talking about Wanda and Pietro.

It’s a helter skelter moment in his chest as he realises that _the carnival hasn’t come for him_. But at the same time as that’s true, Wanda and Pietro are in danger. At the same time, the sheriff wants to help them.

They won’t let him, though. He saw that in their faces when they talked about Steve. They don't trust authority figures and Clint honestly can't blame them. His own history with the law is long, but it's not varied. Even when he's been obeying the rules, he's got in trouble for standing somewhere they don't want him to be. Trying to explain that this place seems different won't work. He's still not sure he believes it himself, that some tiny nowheresville is somehow full of decent people. It sounds like a fantasy.

There’s a part of Clint that tells him he should walk into the kitchen right now and tell them the truth. It would be safer for all of them.

But Natasha… she’s a practical sort of person, and Bucky hadn’t voiced an opinion. Clint’s pretty sure everyone in town listens to Steve, but at the same time people do crazy things to protect themselves and the people they care about; there’s no guarantee that they’ll agree to help.

So, instead, he proceeds with plan A, which is bullshit, bullshit, and bullshit some more, only harder.

He walks back a few steps and the goes forward again, stepping on the creaky floorboard deliberately as he crosses to the kitchen door and pushes it open.

“Hey! It’s a party in the kitchen,” he says. “Am I interrupting a super secret meeting?” He looks around. Sam’s there as well, because of course he is. “Do you have a secret handshake?” He crosses to the fridge while talking. “Sam? Can I steal some food? I’m famished.” He turns around and all four of them are staring at him in confusion. Fuck. What’s he forgotten? Does he have ‘I am stealing food for the two teenage fugitives you were just discussing’ written on his forehead. He hopes not, because that would take up a lot of room and Clint’s quite fond of his face as it is. He’s just about managed to wear it in.

He looks around, from Sam to Steve, to Natasha, whose lips are pursed unhappily, then to Bucky, who’s suddenly closer than is generally considered good manners, not that Clint’s got much of an idea what they are.

“You don’t –” Bucky sniffs.

“I don’t what?” Clint checks to see that he’s wearing pants, but no, this is not a pantsless day, much to his relief.

Bucky looks at Steve, his face is a bit lost, and Steve looks back, frowning with his head cocked to one side, like a confused puppy.

“Where did you get that flower?” Natasha asks, her voice cutting through the confusion in the room like diamond.

Clint glances down at the flower in his pocket, which is now the subject of intent stares from four different sets of eyes.

“Uh…” he’d honestly not thought anyone would notice the flower. Sure, it’s not like he’s a big flower person, but he’s not _not_ a flower person. Is it really that weird? “I picked it?” he says slowly. It sounds believable enough. There are flowers around town. He’s seen them. He could totally have picked a flower because he thought it looked pretty.

“Where?” Sam asks. Clint shrugs.

“Just somewhere down the road. I didn’t really notice. I thought it looked pretty. And purple’s my colour, of course.” But they don’t know that, do they? He shrugs. This is getting really uncomfortable. What’s the problem with it? It’s just a flower.

“In the town?” Steve says. “You picked that inside the town?”

“Uh… yeah,” Clint looks around. Their faces go from bland (Natasha), to worried (Steve), to disgusted (Sam), to downright furious (Bucky). Of course it’s Bucky who’s mad, and this time Clint doesn’t even know what he did. “Not fond of buttonholes?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, though he can feel his body bracing for whatever’s about to come.

“It’s in your pocket, not your buttonhole,” Bucky growls at him.

“He’s not angry with you,” Natasha says. She has an uncanny way of reading his mind. “None of us is.”

“It’s just that flower is…” Steve trails off.

“Poison,” Sam finishes for him. “It’s called monkshood and it’s poisonous. Extremely.” Clint blinks. That’s definitely not the name Wanda told him.

“Not your fault,” Bucky says, a little gruffly. “You didn’t know.”

“Guess I won’t eat it, then,” Clint jokes. “Unless... it’s not a contact poison right?” He looks down at it in horror. Wanda had seemed so nice, but maybe she’d been secretly going to poison him all along. He knows too much. That would be a really fitting end to Clint Barton, to be honest: killed by a flower given to him by a girl who smiled at him. RIP Clint Barton, whose soft heart got him dead.

“No. It’s not a contact poison,” Natasha supplies. “It’s only poisonous when consumed.”

“Oh, okay then,” Clint draws in a deep breath of relief. Wanda’s not trying to kill him. Score.

Natasha gets up and crosses over to him and pats his chest just next to the flower.

“You should keep it. It really is your colour.”

“Nat, I –“ Sam starts, but she gives him a look and he throws up his hands. “Fine.” He turns to Steve, who simply shrugs. He looks torn for a moment before he shakes his head. He glances at Natasha, who still looks calmer than anyone else in the room. There is a conversation going on here that Clint can't understand.

“If you like it, keep it. You’re not doing anyone any harm. Although we should find where it’s growing, in case any of the local wildlife tries it.”

Clint blinks, eyes wide.

“Aw no – it can hurt animals?” he looks down at it. It seems so innocent. Maybe that’s what Wanda meant by protection from the wolves, so if they eat him they get poisoned. He wrinkles his nose. That sounds pretty terrible.

“We’re going to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Steve answers him, before nodding at Sam and Nat, who stand up. He gives Bucky a look, one eyebrow raised. There's a hint of amusement under the concern. Bucky is steadfastly ignoring him, still standing a bit too close, staring at Clint. Sam elbows him in the side as he walks past, then Bucky blinks and shakes his head, looking up at Clint’s eyes rather than at the flower.

“Not your fault,” he repeats. “Just some bad memories.”

“I’ll take it off,” Clint says, reaching for it. He doesn’t want to take it off, it was a gift and Clint hoards gifts, using them until they fall apart completely.

Bucky frowns, breathing in through his nose for a second, before his face slips into resignation.

“No. You should keep it. I can get over it,” he looks sad for a moment before he wipes the expression off his face.

“You coming, Buck?” Steve asks. “Or you can stay here batt-”

“Yeah, hold your horses, I’m coming,” Bucky says.

As the four of them head out the door, looking more like they're going to a funeral than flower picking, Clint remembers why he came in here in the first place.

“Sam, can I steal some food?”

“Sure, help yourself. Can you watch the place while we sort this out?”

“Sure,” Clint agrees, already opening the fridge.

*

The toiletries and other items the twins need are more difficult to get, but Clint’s still got some cash lying around, and he's doing some odd jobs for Tony at the workshop still for some extra cash, and he heads over to the general store after Sam gets back, and stares down the woman at the register. She seems more standoffish than usual, like he's somehow offended her when Clint doesn't think they've ever had a full conversation about something other than the price of his razor blades.

“Stocking up for the guesthouse,” he says. She doesn’t look convinced, but she rings him up anyway and he stuffs all of the food and groceries into the shopping bags and heads home.

The next morning, when he sets out to deliver his haul, he would swear blind that there’s no one around when he comes out of the guesthouse, but he turns from the path onto the sidewalk and there’s Natasha, in full uniform, standing there with a cup of complicated looking coffee in her hand.

“Going somewhere nice?” she asks pleasantly, taking a sip of her drink. He has the distinct impression that she knows everything.

“Just around,” Clint tells her with a shrug. She looks down at the bags he’s carrying. “Thought I’d take my dinner.” That makes her face crease into a frown.

“Stay in town,” is what she says, though. Her eyes flick down to the flower he’s still wearing. “You remember the curfew? We think the wild dogs might still be nearby. We’re advising anyone who’s not familiar with the area to stay within the town.” That’s pretty much just Clint, then, he reasons, because everyone else seems to have either been born here, or living here so long they might as well be local. Clint's the only person who hasn't been here years.

“I can do that,” he says with a nod and a brief smile. “No problem, Deputy.” He knows how to butter up the law when he has to. Or, he knows how to try. Most of the time it just comes out sounding sarcastic. Luckily, this doesn't see to be one of those times.

She looks at him for a long moment and sighs.

“You know we couldn’t find any monkshood in the town,” she tells him. He knows she’s fishing, or maybe she’s just warning him that she’s onto him. It’s difficult to tell with Natasha.

“That’s weird,” he says. “But I guess at least we don’t have to worry about the dogs. Tony will be happy.”

“Tony?” Natasha asks with a frown.

“Because he’s got that huge dog?” Clint says. “Captain?”

“Oh yes... _Captain_... Tony’s dog,” Natasha says in an amused tone. Clint’s not sure why that’s amusing, but he’s pretty sure he’d need a decade at least to understand even half of what goes through Natasha’s mind.

“Want some company?” she asks.

If it had been any other day, Clint might have even said yes. He likes Natasha. She’s okay for a cop, when she’s not trying to trick him into telling her his secrets. But today, he has places to be and people to aid and abet. His dance card’s all filled up.

“Actually, I kind of wanted to… think about things. On my own,” he says. “Stuff on my mind. You know?” He waits for the inevitable joke about not hurting himself, or being surprised he thought about anything, but it doesn’t come, leaving a pot hole in the conversation. Instead, Natasha nods.

“That makes sense,” she agrees. “Be safe and stick to the town, okay?”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, trying to give her a salute, but forgetting he’s carrying a shopping bag in each hand and hitting himself in the head instead. To her credit, Natasha doesn't laugh, but she does look like she's holding in a sigh.

“And don’t make yourself sick. That’s a lot of food for one person,” she adds.

“I’ll be fine. My stomach is made of lead,” he tells her. She chuckles and shakes her head, stepping past him up towards the guesthouse.

“Have a good day,” Clint says and she responds in kind before heading inside. Clint sets off down the road, trying to keep his pace quick, but not unreasonably slow. No one trusts a person who looks like they’re running. He really hopes he’s not going to run into Steve next.

He doesn’t, although he does pass a number of people he recognises, if not by name, then by sight. They all, without fail, greet him and ask how he’s doing, and Clint feels that strange hum of familiarity close around him, like a comforting blanket. If it weren’t for the pulse of anxiety that comes from smuggling items to runaway teens, he’d almost feel at home.

It’s almost as familiar as the carnival already. He knows the ticks and the tocks of the town as the day goes by. Knows who walks past when, walking their dogs, or their children to school. The comforting familiarity of it all is a worrying feeling that he pushes aside. He’ll need to confront it at some point, but for now, he allows himself to enjoy it.

*

Pietro and Wanda tear into the food eagerly. Clint really doesn’t miss that feeling. Although there was something to be said about the uncomplicated pleasure of eating when you were so hungry that your insides were hollow like a drum.

God, how many times had he done this? Waiting, stomach growling like a wild animal, until Barney came back with food stuffed up his shirt? Too many times. But they’d eaten. Sometimes it had been a while between meals, but Barney had always come through. And they’d been together. He sees the twins looking at each other, amused looks, and Pietro sticks out his tongue as he steals a chip from Wanda’s hand.

Clint misses his brother. Misses having someone he knows he can count on no matter what. The folks in this town are great, but they’re not family.

He sighs and Wanda looks at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing important,” he tells her with a smile. “I just miss my family,” he says. She frowns a little and opens her mouth to say something, but shakes her head.

They eat companionably, telling stories about their past, carefully edited on all sides to be vague, but it’s good to talk about it, even a little bit.

He makes a habit of it, taking the food to the twins, although he tends to aim for lunchtime rather than breakfast, so he can eat with then without raising suspicion. He's started on painting the guesthouse now, replacing the peeling pink paint with a fresh coat of light blue. The wolf comes and goes, but never seems to stop for long, and never comes quite as close to him again, preferring to pace at the end of the garden instead, and disappearing before lunchtime, which makes everything easier.

Sam asks him where he goes the second time he disappears, but Clint tells him it’s a different place every time with a shrug. He goes a different route every day, just in case, and makes sure he’s not followed, as best he can. Sometimes he thinks he can feel eyes on him, and he ends up going all the way round the town, until his paranoia settles down. But the sheriff's definitely looking for Wanda and Pietro, and he has a feeling that, in this town, anything could be watching him. One day he even pulls out every trick in the book to avoid what turns out to be a fox.

It’s been a week of him helping them out when Wanda announces they’ll be leaving the next day.

“The danger has passed,” she says.

“For now,” Pietro adds, because he’s apparently a little ray of sunshine. He’s also got a mouthful of pie as he says it and pastry scatters everywhere.

Clint’s been wondering how to raise the subject all week, and backed down every time, but if they’re going then he has to do it now.

“I think.” He looks between them and hesitates, but then ploughs ahead. “I think you could stay here, if you wanted. No matter who’s after you, the people here, they wouldn’t let them hurt you. They’re good people.” Wanda smiles a bit sadly at him.

“And we would cause problems for them. Maybe when we are older, we will return to visit you.”

Clint’s about to say he’d like that, he opens his mouth and everything when he remembers.

“I’m not going to be here,” he says. “I’m just staying until my brother catches up with me, then I’m gone.”

“Where will you go?” asks Pietro, around another mouthful of pie.

“I don’t know,” Clint admits. He’s been trying not to think that far ahead. He can’t afford to. “Wherever we like, I guess. There’s no one left to stop us. Maybe I’ll find you,” he says with a grin. Wanda and Pietro don’t smile, though.

“Maybe you should take your own advice,” Wanda says. “This is not such a bad place, if you can handle the wolves.”

Clint lets himself imagine that for a moment: living here in town, with Bucky and everyone, Barney living here too, working as mechanics down at Tony’s workshop maybe, or as handymen.  He could get some stuff, actual stuff that sticks around rather than being portable. He brushes his fingertips over the flower, that’s still as fresh as when Wanda handed it to him. It would be nice, having somewhere to belong again, having a group of people around him who had his back again.

But that’s not what Clint’s like.

“Nah,” he says. “That’s not our thing. We don’t stick around. I’d just mess it up, anyway.” He shrugs.

“I don’t think you’d mess it up,” Wanda says seriously, far more seriously than Clint’s tone had required.

“I think he would,” Pietro says, earning himself a sisterly elbow in the ribs.

“You’ve only just met me. I’m kind of a disaster,” Clint tells Wanda.

“I don’t think they would care. They seem like they’re sort of disasters too,” Wanda says. Pietro agrees with her, his words incomprehensible around the food in his mouth, but the tone is affirmative.

“Whatever. We were talking about you anyway,” Clint says. “If you have to go, then you have to go, but… let me… I don’t know, pack you a bag or something. And I’ll see you off.”

“Aw, you going to miss us, old man?” Pietro asks. Clint rolls his eyes.

“I never miss anything,” he says.

“Okay,” Wanda says, nodding her head sharply. “We will leave tomorrow morning at dawn, heading north. You will meet us in the forest, just outside of town.”

Clint nods.

*

The woods feel unreal in the early morning: still and clear with the bird song echoing between the trees. There is potential in the stillness, like something could happen. Like anything could happen, or is happening, just around the next tree.

They walk in silence. Clint doesn’t have any jokes for this and he feels like the silence is too fragile to try. He doesn’t want them to go. It’s been a week and he’s already too attached. It’s stupid, but there it is.

Of course, Pietro decides they are moving too slowly, and darts ahead.

“Come along, you two,” he calls back. “Put some effort in.”

Clint leans down to scoop up a small pebble from the ground and lobs it at Pietro, so it hits him right in the ass with just enough heft that it should sting, but not leave a mark. The look of utter betrayal on Pietro’s face is enough to get both Wanda and Clint laughing.

Clint adjusts the bag on his shoulder, trying to redistribute the weight. The strap’s cutting into him as it is.

There is a movement out of the corner of his eye, a shape moving through the forest. He’s almost used to that these days, but he gives it a second look anyway, just in case. Natasha had said there were wild dogs out here. But there’s nothing there. He sighs and leans over to Wanda. Just because he can’t see anything, doesn’t mean there’s nothing there.

“Don’t look now, but I think we’ve got company,” he mutters in her ear. She, to her credit, does not freeze, just keeps moving.

“What sort of company?”

Pietro’s still skipping off ahead, calling back to them.

“I think maybe a wolf, but I didn’t get a close-“

“Shit! Where did you come from?”

Pietro’s voice jerks both their heads around.

Ahead of them, dressed in a hoodie, the hood pulled up over his head, his hand stuck in the pocket, and less than a metre from Pietro, stands Bucky.

Wanda takes a step back. Clint takes a step forwards.

“How?” Pietro hisses. “I should have –“

“Picked up a little trick,” Bucky says as he pulls a flower from his pocket, the sister of the one in Clint’s. “Thought I’d give it a try.”

“Wanda,” Pietro calls back, his voice flattening to a tone Clint’s never heard before. “Run!”

“No,” Clint says immediately. “No one run.” He holds up both his hands, like that’s going to do any good, and takes another step forwards. “Look, just... everyone should calm down.”

“He’ll send us back,” Pietro says, then spits a phrase in what sounds like another language. It doesn't sound complimentary.

“Mind your manners,” Bucky tells him mildly. “I'm not here to hurt you or send you back.”

A quick glance at Wanda confirms that she’s going into fight or flight mode too. Her eyes are wide, her hands are raised. She looks almost dangerous. Fuck. Why does it have to be Clint stuck in the middle? He's not exactly good at calming things down.

“Robin,” Bucky calls back, still watching Pietro. “You want to tell me what exactly I’m looking at?” He sticks his hand back in his pocket.

Clint takes a moment to assess him. Bucky’s body language is non-threatening: just a guy walking in the woods at dawn, nothing to see here, sort of body language. The kind of posture that comes with a lot of careful practice and is essentially just the fancy sheath you keep your favourite knife in. But it _is_ non-threatening and Clint’s pretty sure Bucky wouldn’t hurt a kid, unless that kid was holding a knife to someone’s throat, and even then, maybe he’d talk first. Maybe.

“I can explain,” Clint offers, a little helplessly.

“You’d better,” Bucky says. “Cause this looks bad and you’ve got two minutes before I call Nat and Steve and this gets a whole lot more complicated.”

“Liar! They’re already here, aren’t they?” Pietro says, his head swivelling as he looks all around trying to find the hidden sheriff. “I know men like you. Thinking you’re the big bad wolf.”

“Kid, you’ve never met anyone like me,” Bucky says. He doesn’t sound cocky or aggressive, just very tired. “I’m the thing that tore the big bad wolf apart.” Clint looks at him, and can’t see a lie there. It’s like he believes what he’s saying, but Clint can’t picture it. Bucky’s bark’s pretty bad, but he’s nice underneath all the bluster, when he lets himself be. The guy likes smiley faces in his pancakes, for crying out loud.

“No one is tearing anyone apart,” Clint says as decisively as he can. “Bucky, they’re kids. They were in a bad place; they made it out of there. You can’t send them back.”

“Why not?” Bucky asks.

“Because…” Clint flails for an answer “Because you can’t. Because it would be wrong. Because Steve would…”

“Steve’s not here.”

“Because you’re a good person," Clint says, snatching the words out of the air, as lame as they might sound. Because they're true. He'd bet his life on them being true.

“Are you sure about that?” Bucky asks, turning to look Clint directly in the eye.

“Yes,” Clint says, absolutely one hundred percent positive. “You’re a mistrustful son of a bitch and you can be a fucking asshole, but you’d never let an innocent person into danger if you had another choice.” Bucky nods, more to himself than at what Clint's just said, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Why is this your business?” Bucky asks. “You don’t even know these kids.”

“Who are you calling a kid?” Pietro asks. Wanda hisses her brother’s name, but Pietro ignores her. Bucky ignores them both.

“They deserve a chance,” Clint says. “You guys and Sam, maybe you gave me a shot at mine, so I’m passing it on.”

“You think they’re going to be safe where they’re going?”

“I think they’re definitely not going to be safe if they go back where they were before,” Clint replies. They've got a chance. It’s not a guarantee, but if it’s a choice between something that’s sure to harm you and something that might harm you, he knows which he’ll always choose. They’re smart and Clint’s given them all the help he possibly can. They’ll make it.

The fact that his and Barney’s safe haven had turned out to be another frying pan, doesn’t mean that has to happen to everyone.

After a moment more of staring at him, Bucky sighs.

“You sure about this?” he asks.

“I’ve never been sure of anything,” Clint says. “But life’s more fun with a few surprises.”

Bucky tilts his head up a bit and a ray of early morning sun slants over his features, lighting them up in a way that makes him almost a part of the unreality that settles on the forest around them. Clint does not gasp. He might bite his tongue a little. This is a really inconvenient time to be having feelings, or to be saying something inappropriate.

Bucky’s expression is resigned, but he’s smiling a soft little smile.

“You could say that,” he says slowly, the smile growing at the edges, like it can’t quite stop itself.

“Oh my god. Get a room,” Pietro grumbles. Then he says something more quietly that Clint can’t catch, but it makes Bucky look at the kid sharply, and raises a protest from Wanda. Under their combined gazes, Pietro falls silent, shoving his hands in his pockets and glaring at the side of Bucky's face.

“Fine. What’s the plan?” Bucky asks. Clint blinks, looking around. That was easy.

“You will help us?” Wanda asks. Bucky shakes his head and gives a conspiratorial grin.

“Nah. That would break the Pact,” he says. Clint opens his mouth to ask what that's about, then closes it again, he's pretty sure he's not going to get a straight answer. It's a weird kind of word to use. 'Pact'. He's only ever heard it before in horror movies.

Maybe they really are all devil worshippers. That could be a thing. A town full of devil worshippers who sacrifice innocent travellers and make pacts with demons.

They seem really nice to be worshipping demons, though. Clint shakes his head. It's probably not demons. He forces himself back to the conversation at hand.

“They’ve got an aunt in the city,” Clint says. Pietro shoots him a mutinous glance.

“Fine,” the kid says, kicking at the undergrowth, “tell the enemy our plans. Good idea. Great.”

“Not your enemy,” Bucky says. “Also – like I just said, I’m not helping you. I’m taking a pleasant early morning walk when I happen to bump into this completely neutral, unaffiliated bystander, who I might help out – because I’m helpful and I owe him one.”

“You don’t owe me,” Clint says with a frown.

“Yeah, I kind of do,” Bucky tells him, still smiling. “So you guys need to get to the city?”

“We were going to the next town,” Wanda says.

“I’ve got the money for bus tickets,” Clint adds.

“Alright, but if you keep going the way you are, you’ll run into exactly the problem you’re trying to get away from. Come with me.”

“So you can lead us into a trap?” Pietro says. “I don’t think so.”

“Like I said,” Bucky says. “I haven’t seen you two, no idea where you are. But him,” Bucky nods towards Clint. “I owe him a debt. And now I’m helping him avoid stumbling into a dangerous situation. You two can go wherever you damn well want. No skin off my nose.”

“I think we should listen to him,” Wanda says slowly.

“But..”

“I think he is telling the truth,” she says. Pietro sags a bit in defeat.

“Fine. But if this turns out to be a trap, then I told you so,” he says.

The next hour or so of walking is not as relaxed as before. Pietro sulks, going off ahead to scout and make sure Bucky’s not leading them into a trap. Wanda might be willing to trust, but sje's clearly uncomfortable and clutches her sleeves in her hands, keeping her eyes down.

Bucky chooses to walk alongside Clint, not so close they touch, but close enough to grab him if he trips over (which he only does once) and he keeps turning and opening his mouth as if to say something, then shutting it, shoving his hand deeper into his pocket and scowling at the ground. Clint thinks that he and Pietro actually look pretty similar to each other, but keeps the thought to himself. He doesn't think either of them would appreciate it.

Clint makes a few comments that he hopes are funny, but it’s a tough crowd and, aside from a slight there-and-gone-again quirk to Wanda’s lips, and a deepening of Bucky’s frown, he gets no reaction, so eventually he lapses into mostly silence too, leaving the only conversation as Pietro’s commentary as he forges ahead.

The building materialises in the wood ahead of them. It seems that one second there are only trees, and the next there is an entire cabin with a familiar, beat up pick-up truck outside it.

“This is where you live?” Clint asks. It makes sense now, seeing the way Bucky’s shoulders are just a little more relaxed with the building in sight.

“Yeah,” Bucky answers. “What? You thought I lived over the bar or something?”

“Naw, I didn’t really think you lived anywhere,” Clint says. “Like some weird homeless cryptid, or whatever.” He looks at the cabin. It seems nice. Quiet, but in a good way.

Wanda giggles, smothering the sound behind her hand quickly and darting a look at Bucky who… also looks amused. Clint is missing something. He's always missing something.

“Not that kind of cryptid,” Bucky says, smirking a bit. “Now get in losers, we’re going shopping," he says, before swinging himself into the truck, watching the rest of them expectantly.

“You -” Clint says, before lapsing into silence, because what exactly is he supposed to say to that?

“Is this a thing where you drive us into the woods and chop us into pieces?” Pietro asks.

“Yes,” Bucky says, deadpan. “Now get in the back.”

“Why do I have to get in the back?” Pietro asks. “Maybe _Clint_ should sit in the back. Maybe you should be separated. Wanda and I can play chaperone.”

Clint opens his mouth to respond that he and Bucky are barely acquaintances and there’s no need of a chaperone of any sort, when he realises what Pietro just said. Or, more accurately – and Clint is always accurate – what Pietro just called him.

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

He looks at Bucky and knows that guilt is written all over his face.

Bucky’s got one eyebrow raised, but he doesn’t seem angry or surprised.

“ _Clint_ ,” he says, leaning heavily on the name, “is riding in the front because _Clint_ is not the person I am not in anyway trying to smuggle out of town,” Bucky says. “Now Clint, take off your monkshood bloom, give it to the boy.” He pulls his own out of his pocket and holds it out to Wanda, who takes it. Pietro takes Clint’s reluctantly. “I know you’ve already got one each, but it’ll be weird if we’re…” he glances at Clint and shrugs. “It’s best you two have them. Now in the back and under the blankets until I say it’s safe, gottit?”

They climb in the back as Clint tries to work out what exactly is going on with the flowers. They're just flowers. What makes them so special?

“Yes sir, grumpy old man, sir,” Pietro says. Bucky flips him off olver his shoulder, not that Pietro can see from under the blanket.

“So what’s with the flowers?” Clint asks after a moment, touching the place where his had been in the pocket of the flannel shirt he’s wearing.

Bucky’s hand flexes on the steering wheel.

“Local superstition”, he says.

“Really? Are they good or bad? Cause first time you saw me wearing it, you didn’t seem that keen and Sam was about ready to raze and burn the place, but now you’re treating them like they’re some sort of lucky charm or something.”

Clint knows about superstition. You’ll never find a more superstitious lot than performers. Lucky underwear, lucky routines, people who had to step out left foot first or the whole evening was ruined. Clint himself always taps his bow twice with his finger just before he shoots his first arrow. It’s nonsense, but it’s his. This does not seem like any superstition he’s ever seen before.

“Yeah, it’s just a local thing,” Bucky says. Clint gets the distinct impression that Bucky wants him to stop asking.

“But Pietro and Wanda aren’t from round here,” he says, because he never does what people want him to do.

“Which is why we have different superstitions,” Wanda says. It’s difficult to understand her, muffled as she is by the layer of blanket. “Where we are from, it is lucky. Here it is bad luck. Like black cats.”

“Right,” Clint says. “I thought with black cats it depended on which way they’re going.”

“You what?” Bucky says. “No. Black cats are good luck.”

“Bad luck,” Pietro calls from behind them, but it might just be to be contrary.

“Shut up. We’re too close,” Bucky says.

Everyone shuts up then, although Pietro gives one little mumble that Clint can’t pick up, which is probably an insult.

He directs his attention out the window instead, towards the trees. There are shapes running in them, creatures running alongside the road, keeping pace wih the truck.

“Are those wolves?” he asks. Bucky doesn’t even look.

“Remember that pack of wild dogs,” he says. Clint hums an affirmative. “That’s them.”

“Is this… normal?” Clint asks.

“Not exactly,” Bucky replies. He doesn’t provide any more information.

“Has anyone ever told you this place is weird?” Clint asks.

“Not many people stick around long enough to find out,” Bucky says. “Just… act natural.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “I’ll just act like I normally do when I’m driving in a truck pursued by wild dogs. Because that happens to me all the time.” Bucky huffs a little and maybe that’s a laugh. Clint’s going to take it as a laugh anyway.

“Damn, and here was I thinking I was doing something special,” Bucky replies. “I’ll have to try harder.”

“I expect better,” Clint says.

The dogs keep pace with them as they go up the road. The tension in the truck is rising and Bucky’s knuckles are turning white where he’s gripping that knob on the steering wheel.

They round a corner on the road and there’s a man standing in the centre of the asphalt, Bucky hits the breaks and swears under his breath as they screech to a halt.

“What the –?“ Clint starts, but Buck silences him with a look. Something is happening here.

The man walks towards them and Bucky winds down the window.

“Mr Barnes, I wasn’t expecting to see you. Where are you heading?” the man asks,he sounds pleasant enough, but there is a strange undertone to his voice that Clint can't quite place. Whatever it is sets his teeth on edge. His face is thin and pointed, his hair at the point where salt and pepper becomes more salt than pepper. He looks at Clint like he’s a particularly dumb species of beetle.

“Up to Marvel Hill,” Bucky says, pointing down the road. “Robin and I’ve got a few things to pick up.

The man nods, then leans a bit closer to the vehicle with a dismissive sniff, making a face. It’s a little unnecessary. Clint knows he’s sweaty, but he doesn’t smell that bad.

“You looking for a ride?” Bucky asks and Clint wonders what the hell he's thinking. The only seats they have are already taken up by Pietro and Wanda. Clint wants to glare at him, but that would give the game away, so he just keeps up his vaguely confused face, which comes naturally and hopes that the man says no.

The man sniffs again, then shakes his head.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” he says. “Safe journey, Mr Barnes, Mr Pevensie.”

Bucky nods and waits until the man has stepped away before winding the window up and giving a little wave, then he moves the truck away again and they drive in silence.

The bus is already waiting when they pull up and they pile out of Bucky’s truck. Wanda and Pietro look more subdued than usual. Clint doesn’t ask who the man was, back on the road. He doesn’t need to. There’s enough of the story in their faces.

He grabs the bag he packed for them instead, and hands it to Wanda, whose eyebrows rise at the weight.

“I tried to think of everything you might need. Be careful, okay? Look after each other.”

“Always,” Wanda replies, before reaching out to hug him tightly. Clint is taken by surprise, but hugs her back after a second, patting her on the back. “Thank you,” she says as she pulls back again.

“It’s not much,” Clint says, shrugging. “Just some stuff I had lying around.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she says, smiling a little sadly. “You have no idea where we came from or why we are running, but you helped us anyway.”

“Everyone’s got stuff in their past they don’t want to think about,” Clint says, avoiding her gaze. “Trust me, whatever you’re running from, I’ve seen worse. I’ve probably done worse, too.”

She smiles at him again. He hates that all her smiles seem sad.

“Your heart is in the right place,” she tells him. “And I think perhaps the rest of you might be as well.” Clint laughs.

“You mean waiting for a bus to take me miles away from here?” he asks and she gives him an exasperated look.

“You know what I meant. Just keep your eyes open and remember that some things are even stranger than they seem.”

“OK,” Clint agrees. She’s being cryptic again. She does that. He’s going to miss her being cryptic.

“Come on, sister,” Pietro calls. “Or it will leave without us.”

“I’m thanking Clint for his help,” she tells him.

“Why? We could have managed without him,” Pietro replies. Wanda gives him a flat look, then kisses Clint on the cheek before walking over to Bucky and leading him off a little way. Far enough away that Clint can’t overhear them.

Pietro walks over, hands in his pockets, looking like a kid who’s been told to apologise.

“Thanks, I guess,” he says. “You weren’t completely useless. Even if you don’t know anything.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Clint echoes back to him. “Stay safe and take care of your sister.”

“If someone wants to hurt her, they go through me,” Pietro says, baring his teeth. It might be a trick of the light, but they look strangely sharp for a second. Then Clint blinks and the strange illusion is gone. He nods at Pietro's words. It’s not bravado, well, maybe a little bit, but mostly it’s honestly what he believes.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t get that far,” Clint replies. He really hopes that this works out for them. Someone deserves to make a clean break.

“You take care of yourself too, old man,” Pietro tells him. “And don’t go walking in the woods by yourself. You never know when the big bad wolf might be hunting you.”

“I don’t know what your problem with wolves is,” Clint says, shaking his head. “All the wolves I’ve met have been pretty friendly.”

“Like I said,” Pietro says with a smirk. “You don’t know anything.” He nudges Clint’s side with his shoulder. “Sorry for stealing your lunch.”

“That’s o-“ Clint pauses and thinks back. “What do you mean, stealing my lunch? You’ve never stolen my lunch.” Pietro grins and starts walking backwards towards the bus.

“Sister. I am leaving without you!” he calls out in a sing song voice. Wanda nods to Bucky and follows, waving at Clint as she goes.

They board the bus and Clint stays until it pulls away, Bucky a steady presence just over his shoulder.

“Good riddance,” he says as the bus pulls away, his voice a little hoarse. “They were terrible.”

“You’re a terrible liar, _Clint_ ,” Bucky says, emphasising his name with the heavy doom of inevitability.

Ah, Clint had forgotten about that.

“I guess you want to know about that,” he says.

“You’ll have plenty of time to tell me all about it when we go shopping,” Bucky says, turning away from the truck.

“Shopping?”

“That’s what I said we were doing,” Bucky tells him. “Got to make it look good.” Clint looks around. The town they’re in is maybe three times the size of Timely, but that doesn’t exactly make it big. Bucky starts walking towards the centre. “Unless you want to try walking back to Timely.”

Clint has gone to greater lengths to avoid conversations before. But something tells him he wouldn’t be avoiding this conversation. Just delaying it for a little while.

“Fine,” he says, jogging to catch up with Bucky. “What are we buying?”

“Is Clint your real name?” Bucky asks.

“Yep.”

“You got a last name to go with that?”

“Yep.”

“Gonna tell me what it is?”

“Nope.”

“Then I guess you don’t get to know what’s on my shopping list,” Bucky says with a shrug.

“But I’ll just find out when you buy it,” Clint says. Bucky smirks, tossing his hair out of his eyes.

“You sure about that?”

“Yes, because we’re both here. That doesn’t even make sense, Barnes.”

“Fine, we’ll try another question,” Bucky says. “Why did you help those kids?”

“You already asked me that,” Clint points out. “And we covered it. I’m not that big a dick.”

“Yeah, I think I’m getting that,” Bucky replies, a little softer. “But that’s not it.” Clint glares at the side of his head. His tone is flippant, like he really knows what’s going on in Clint’s head.

“I’ve been there,” Clint says finally, looking into the windows they pass. “And it sucks. And it turns out what I thought was a hand helping to pull me out was just a hand pulling me into a different pit. I guess I just wished someone had helped me and Barney out, that’s all.” He shrugs.

“That’s the truth,” Bucky says, nodding at him, like Clint’s earned his approval or some shit. Clint resists the urge to stick his tongue out at him.

“Where do you get off on that?” Clint asks. “Acting like you’re a human lie detector. You can’t tell when I’m lying.”

“Yes, I can,” Bucky says, grinning a bit more widely.

“Liar,” Clint says.

“Fine, tell me two lies and one truth and I’ll tell you which one’s true,” Bucky offers.

“Seriously?” Clint asks. Bucky just raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Alright then. I hate pizza. My favourite colour’s orange and I’m not wearing underwear.”

“Doesn’t that chafe?” Bucky asks mildly, looking down. “But at least make it difficult. You talked for twenty minutes last week non-stop to Tony about how pizza is the best food in the world. The whole bar hear that one. You were very enthusiastic.”

“Oh yeah,” Clint remembers that, although he remembers Bucky had been on the other side of the room when it had happened. He knew because he’d kept sneaking looks at him. Clint must have been louder than he thought. “But how do you know orange isn’t my favourite colour?”

“Your favourite colour is purple,” Bucky says. Clint’s face falls because he can’t remember telling Bucky that one – or anyone in Timely. “I pay attention. Try again.”

“You want a difficult one?” Clint asks. “I’m fluent in three languages, I once broke my arm in a collision with a unicycle and I once threw up into the grand canyon.”

“You’re only supposed to tell me one truth,” Bucky says, frowning. “That was two.”

“First of all, fuck you. Second of all, which one do you think was the lie?”

“The first one,” Bucky says without even pausing. Clint opens and closes his mouth like a fish. “How many languages do you speak?”

“Four,” Clint says, a little begrudgingly. “Wanna guess what they are?”

“Not English, obviously,” Bucky says. Clint elbows him in the side.

“Fuck you.”

“You keep saying that.”

“How about I say it in a different language?” Clint suggests and repeats the sentiment in Spanish. It’s a useful language to know in some parts of the country and maybe Clint’s vocabulary is a little ripe, but he learnt it the direct way, not in a stuffy classroom.

“How about you try again and do it properly this time. No cheating,” Bucky chides. Clint scowls, but considers his options. He doesn't have to play, but a part of him wants to. He can choose what he says, after all.

“I took a guy to prom. I was born in Iowa, and I like to keep my feet on the ground,” he says after a moment. Its generic enough information.

“Hawkeye state, huh?” Bucky says. Clint has to glare at him again. How is he doing this?

“Fine! What about this one? My middle name is Charles. My middle name is Michael. My middle name is Francis.”

“Clint Francis,” Bucky says with a long, measuring look at him that makes Clint flush a little around the edges. “Yeah. I can see that. It suits you. Better than _Robin_ anyway. Where’d you come up with that, anyway?”

“I’m a huge Batman fan,” Clint tries.

“I literally just told you I can tell when you’re lying. You don’t want to tell me? Fine. But can we cut out all the bullshit, please?” Bucky stops and turns around to look at him and Clint sighs. There’s no good reason to keep it quiet, he guesses. Bucky can do a lot more damage with his name.

“Robin Hood,” he says with a slump of his shoulders. He waits for whatever insult Bucky chooses to throw at him.

“I can see that,” Bucky says.” Standing up for the little man. Rob from the rich and give to the poor. Yeah. Maybe it suits you a little bit.” Clint knows he’s blushing a bit at the sound of Bucky’s approval. He’s no Robin Hood, not really, but it feels for a second like maybe he could be. He’s got the archery down, and the crime part, too. It’s the rest that he’s got to work on.

“So you gonna tell everyone?” he asks. Bucky looks like he’s considering the question and Clint’s heart sinks. This is it; he’s screwed. Of course Bucky’s going to tell everyone.

“Steve’s always saying that people can change, and you have to give them the chance to do that,” Bucky says, like he’s considering every word carefully. “If you’d asked me a month ago, I’d have told Steve and Natasha in a heartbeat. But you’re not the guy I thought you were.” He shrugs. “If you want Clint Francis to be in the past, then I guess you deserve the chance to leave him there. You’re not that bad.”

“I’m a delight,” Clint replies.

“You’re an acquired taste.”

“And have you?” Clint asks. He’s not sure what prompts him to do it, but the words ‘acquired me’ are on the tip of his tongue.

“Have I what?” Bucky sets him up perfectly.

“Acquired the taste?” Clint says finally, chickening out of the more obvious innuendo at the last moment. Bucky looks at him out of the corner of his eye and Clint tries to pretend – to himself as much as anyone – that the answer does not matter to him.

In lieu of answering, Bucky comes to a halt and nods behind Clint.

“We’re here.”

‘Here’ is a toy shop. A small, independent toy shop which looks to be crammed to the brim with toys of all shapes and sizes. Clint can feel his grin spreading across his face. He hasn’t been in a toy shop since… He’s not sure he’s ever been in a toy shop.

“Really?” He asks.

“I need a present for my niece,” Bucky says. “It’s her birthday in a couple of weeks. Timely ain’t exactly got a lot of choice. Unless I want to ask Tony to build her a robot.” He looks thoughtful for a second then shakes his head. “Maybe next year. She’s still a bit young for stuff that might have lasers.”

“You have a niece?” Clint asks, following Bucky into the store, his head twisting round to take everything in. His hands itch to rummage through the shelves so he shoves them into his pockets quickly. He feels like he’s six years old again. “I didn’t know you had any brothers or sisters.”

“Sister,” Bucky says. “Becca. She’s got two kids.” Clint frowns. Timely’s not that big and Clint’s been there a while now. He would have thought he’d remember hearing about them at least once. Bucky seems to sense his confusion, though he doesn’t turn round.

“They live out west in California way. She left when she met her m- husband.” He sighs, picking up a toy car from a shelf. “I don’t see ‘em very often these days.”

“What’s she into?” Clint asks. Bucky turns to him, looking confused and a little scandalised. “Your niece, what does she like?” he clarifies when Bucky turns round.

“Tormenting her little brother,” Bucky says with a grin. “And I think she’s got a bit of a thing about dinosaurs at the moment.”

“Dinosaurs, we should be able to find,” Clint says, rolling his sleeves up and looking around in delight. It’s a massive treasure trove of finds. There are whole buckets full of action figures.

They find two triceratops, a stegosaurus, and a T-Rex that actually roars before Clint gets distracted by the juggling balls, which he puts to good use, until he finds the water pistols and pretends he’s a cowboy, until he finds the superhero action figures and ropes Bucky into a game of ‘Captain Liberty saves the day’.

“I used to have one of these,” he tells Bucky after Captain Liberty has rescued the dinosaur, killed the evil teddy bear, and ridden off into the sunset on the dinosaur’s back. He looks at it a bit sadly. “Mine never had its shield, but I remember the helmet.” He straightens it up and sets it back into its bucket, smiling a little sadly. “These things were great.”

To distract himself from the memories, he grabs the juggling balls again, remembering all his best tricks to amaze and astound, and he’s got Bucky laughing so hard he cries by the time the shopkeeper comes over to ask them to cease and desist before they destroy half the stock. Clint bows out, leaving Bucky to buy his niece’s present, throwing the juggling balls over his shoulder and back into their spot as he goes. Bucky just shakes his head, but Clint can tell he’s impressed.

“Sorry ma’am,” Bucky says as Clint pushes open the door. “I’ll try to keep him under control.”

Clint waits outside, watching the world go by as Bucky finishes up inside, picking up a discarded copy of the local paper to read – mainly because it has a picture of a dog on the front – and humming under his breath.

“You want some lunch?” Bucky asks as he steps out, parcel tucked under his arm. Clint eyes him suspiciously.

“I’m still not used to you being nice to me,” he says after a moment. “I feel like you might have been replaced by a shapeshifting lizard alien.”

“If I were a shapeshifting lizard alien,” Bucky says, leaning in close so Clint can see the individual hairs of his eyebrows, “you’d never know until it was too late.” He pulls back with a grin, and Clint almost falls forward into the vacuum he leaves. “Come on, there’s a pizzeria around the corner.”

“Pizza?” Clint asks, perking up. It’s been ages since he’s had pizza.

“You know what the stupidest thing in the world is?” Bucky asks out of nowhere, leading Clint round the corner to the pizzeria. It’s a cheery little spot with red tablecloths and it smells delicious.

“That ad on TV that promises perfect abs through milkshakes?” Clint says after a moment of thought. He really hates that ad.

“Well, yeah, but other than that – it’s that Steve became sheriff.” Bucky pushes open the door, holding it so Clint can walk through.

“Huh?” Clint turns to look at him. “He seems good at it to me.”

“That’s the stupidest part: he is. But you don’t know how many times he got us into trouble with the old sheriff when we were kids. Seems like every other day we’d be escorted back to our houses by the deputy." He affects a deep, heavy accent. "Afternoon Missus Barnes, found your son fighting again with that Rogers kid.”

“Your sordid criminal past, huh?” Clint says with a grin.

“It’s all Steve’s fault.”

“Would he tell me that?”

“Oh yes. He knows what he did.” Bucky shakes his head.

Bucky Barnes, when he doesn’t hate your guts, is a charming bastard. He decides that Clint needs to hear all about Steve growing up, and he’s got Clint laughing at the image of him trying to get tiny, determined Steve and Natasha the grumpy teenager to just say no to trouble of all different kinds. Clint can’t really return the favour as most of his best stories are pretty carnival specific, so he mostly listens in delight as Bucky fails time and again to get Steve to listen to reason.

It’s a good day, and they’re both smiling as they get back into Bucky’s old pick-up. It seems like an age since the last time Clint was staring out the window of a truck, heading towards Timely. He doesn’t feel quite so lost anymore. He supposes that’s a good thing.

Bucky flicks the radio on, picking up some station that seems stuck in the forties, and sings along under his breath. He’s got a nice voice and Clint feels like he could just stay here in this moment forever, good company, a full stomach and the sound of Bucky’s voice lulling him into something that is almost sleep.

But nothing’s forever, and he feels like, now Bucky knows some of it, he wants him to know more. Maybe he wants forgiveness or validation, or just wants someone to see how big a piece of shit he actually is, but he knows he can't hold it in anymore.

“Hey, Buck,” he says. “Which is true: I’ve eaten lobster pizza; I’ve punched a shark in the nose; I once shot a guy in front of his kid.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Clint regrets it, but he can't take them back. They're out there now. Bucky stops singing, taking a moment.

“You gonna do it again?” he asks a second later.

“Yeah, it actually tasted pretty good,” Clint says, deliberately misunderstanding. Bucky turns his head to glare, hard, before looking back at the road. Clint tries again: “I really, really hope not.” He doesn’t look at Bucky, but he can still see him nod out of the corner of his eye. “You were right about me the first time. I’m not someone you should trust.”

“Steve thinks you are,” Bucky says after a moment. “Fuck knows he’s got terrible judgement about when to walk away from a fight, but he’s got a good nose for people.” Clint squirms uncomfortably in his seat. “And Natasha’s practically a mind-reader-”

“Says the walking lie detector,” Clint mutters, but Bucky ignores him and continues.

“-and she likes you. Not sure she trusts you, I’m not sure she trusts anyone, but she likes you. She doesn’t make friends easily.”

“I guess,” Clint agrees. “And Sam likes me too.”

“Sam’s an idiot,” Bucky says. “But the other two… you gonna listen to them or you going to listen to yourself? Because I’ve got to tell you Ro… Clint, you don’t half talk some bullshit sometimes. That guy... you kill him?"

"No." _But someone else did_ , Clint doesn't add.

"You shoot him for a reason?" Bucky asks. Clint thinks back to the gun in the man's hand, pointing directly at Barney's head. He nods. "I'm not gonna tell you that was a good thing to do. But I... I've done some things I'm not that proud of. Hurt some people in my time. If you could go back, would you do it again?"

"If I went back I wouldn't even be there," Clint says immediately. He's thought about that. What would he do differently. The answer is everything.

"I know that feeling," Bucky agrees. "I'm not going to tell anyone about you, Clint. You're trying to do the right thing. You're trying to change. You deserve a chance." Clint frowns, feeling like that wasn't the answer he wanted to hear. What did he want? For Bucky to immediately despise him?

“No. I can’t handle this,” Clint declares. “You’re being too nice. It’s weird. Go back to glaring at me, I could handle that.”

“You’re a bit screwed up, you know that, if you think that was too nice.”

“For you, that was practically a marriage proposal,” Clint says, fighting to get them away from the too serious subject.

“Believe me, if I proposed to you, it’d be the most romantic fucking thing you’d ever seen,” Bucky says. “I’d sweep you off your goddam feet.” Clint looks at the side of Bucky’s face, not sure what to say to that. He can see a hint of red touching Bucky’s cheeks, not a full blush, but a definite hint of embarrassment. His hand is tight on the wheel as well, his knuckles going white.

“Well, when you find the person you want to settle down with, let me know, because I want a front row seat. I expect fireworks, mind you. You’ve made some big promises, Bucky Boy. Don’t disappoint.”

“If you’re still around when I find that guy – if I find him – then I’ll let you know.”

The words are like cold water being tipped over Clint’s head: if he’s still around. Which he won’t be, will he? He’ll be gone.

He wasn’t supposed to get attached. He looks around desperately for something to change the conversation, but the only thing he finds is a stupid bobble-head sitting on the dashboard. Through some otherworldly stroke of luck, that does the trick, without him even opening his mouth.

“Steve’s a dick,” Bucky says as the little man nods his agreement with the sentiment. He says it as though it explains the thing’s presence. Clint looks at it again, it’s a little shirtless man with dark hair spiked up and what look to be bright blue eyes. In the reflection in the windscreen there’s a weird, spirally tattoo on its back.

“Who is that?” Clint asks. Bucky sighs.

“Character from some TV show aimed at teenage girls.”

“And Steve bought it for you because... he's a dick.”

"Steve thinks he’s funny. Something about me lurking in dark corners and living alone in the woods,” Bucky glares at it. "Guess the character does a lot of that."

"You don't like it."

"I hate the stupid thing," Bucky says.

“But you keep it. In your truck.”

“If I throw it out, Steve wins,” Bucky says. “I got him fuzzy dog slippers that bark when you walk. He still wears them.” Clint looks back at the bobble-head, sitting there calmly bobbing its head in time with the movement of the truck.

“You’re weird,” he says. “My brother just used to buy me beers – and one time when I was fifteen he said he bought me a lap dance, but it turned out he hadn’t and I ended up naked in a police cell.” Clint laughs a bit at the memory, but the laughter falls flat. It seems less funny here, where Bucky’s definitely not laughing, and it’s not Barney telling the story. Barney knows how to tell it to make everyone laugh. These days Clint barely even blushes. Most of what Clint remembers of that night is being very cold and being stared at by a lot of very drunk people. Barney remembers all the fun bits.

“Your brother’s kind of an asshole, isn’t he?” Bucky says.

“Runs in the family,” Clint says with a grin, but it isn’t returned. Bucky huffs.

“If you say so.”

“So Steve’s a dick,” Clint says, cutting the conversation back and wishing he could erase the last five minutes from history. But it doesn’t seem to work, the feeling is gone. They drive in silence for a little while until Bucky points out the window.

“Hey, look who’s still here!” he says and waves to the guy from before, the one who had stopped them on their way, and who is still standing by the side of the road. Clint waves too and gives him a cheery smile. He sort of wants to flip him the bird, but that would definitely be too obvious.

“We’re almost back,” Bucky says.

“Thanks,” Clint says. “For helping them. You didn’t have to.”

“If I’d left you to it, all three of you would have been caught,” Bucky says.

“You said you owed me,” Clint says. “What was that about? You don’t owe me anything.”

“Not important,” Bucky tells him with a shrug.

“I think I’d remember if you owed me something,” Clint says. The trees flying past them fade into buildings as they drive into town.

“Well I don’t anymore, so it’s all good,” Bucky tells him, his tone final.

“How can you owe me something without me even knowing about it?”

“Guess you just weren’t paying attention.”

That sounds worryingly likely.

Bucky pulls his truck up in front of the guesthouse while Clint’s still watching him and trying to work out what’s going on.

“It’s over,” Bucky says. He’s looking stern and grumpy again, has been ever since Clint told that stupid story. “It’s done. Don’t worry about it. People keep telling me to stop dwelling on what’s past, maybe that’s good advice for you too.”

Clint grimaces, because that’s the sort of thing that people say when their past isn’t actively hunting them down. The past is full of landmines.

“I know something dangerous is after you,” Bucky says quietly. “If you want help, I know a dozen people who’d be willing.”

“I’m good,” Clint says.

“Right,” Bucky says. “Remember I know when you’re lying.”

“You don’t need to get involved,” Clint says.

“It’s not about what I need,” Bucky says, “it’s about your safety.” Clint doesn’t look at him, can’t look at him. He just stares at the guesthouse and its shiny new porch.

“I’ll let you know,” he says. They both know he’s lying, but Bucky doesn’t protest as he opens the door. It opens in a rush and he almost falls out of his seat.

“Mind yourself, Robin,” Bucky calls as Clint regains his balance and flips him off, before realising what name Bucky just used. He smiles at him gratefully. “Here,” Bucky fishes something out of the brown paper bag he’d got at the toyshop and throws it to him. Clint snatches it out of the air and looks at it. It’s the Captain Liberty action figure he’d been playing with, complete with shield. “Thought maybe you’d find this a good home.” Clint doesn’t know what to say, just looks at the toy in astonishment. “Guess I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight?” Clint asks stupidly.

“At the bar? Or are you planning to stay in this evening?”

“Oh, yeah. The bar!” Clint smiles again. “Yeah, I’ll see you there. I hope your niece likes her present.”

“Me too.”

Clint shuts the truck door and watches as Bucky pulls away, the action figure clutched tightly in his hand. Until he realises that he’s watching Bucky pull away like a lovesick teenager and he turns decisively to head inside.

Sam is checking a family in and waves at him over their shoulders. Clint doesn’t interrupt, just drags himself up the stairs to his room and sits down on the end of his bed, looking down at Captain Liberty’s stern face.

It’s been a weird day.


	8. The Moon that Breaks the Night

 Time for another monthly town meeting. The diner’s closed, the bar’s closed. Sam and Natasha are on their way out of the door.

Clint’s got Wanda’s words stuck in his head. ‘Some things are stranger than they seem’. These monthly town meetings that never seem to do anything. They’re pretty weird. And he definitely saw a flyer up in the diner the other day that said the next town meeting was in two weeks’ time. Things aren't adding up.

He waits until the streets are clear, till Timely has that ghost town vibe going on again, then he slips out of the guesthouse. He heads to the town hall first, because that’s where he’d hold a town meeting, if that was a thing that he did. But there are no lights on in the place, and when he tries the door, it’s locked. Same goes for every other business in the area.

There is no one here.

So, if he were the entire population of a small town going off together on a hot summer’s night, definitely not to do anything nefarious or demon-worshippy, where would he go?

He climbs up to the roof of the library, to get a better look at it all. It’s a bright night, brief patches of cloud barely covering the moon up at all, so visibility is good. He scans the area, but there’s nothing.

Nothing except for an orange glow to the north east, in the forest, and a plume of smoke.

Huh. Guess that’s where he’d go.

Clint considers for a moment, what he's going to do if it turns out that this town really is worshipping a cult of demons and they want to sacrifice him to their vile deity. He's pretty sure that if this were a horror film, heading towards the mysterious fires out in the woods, would be a terrible idea.

But then, in a horror film, running away would be a terrible idea as well.

And it's probably not a demon worshiping cult thing. Probably.

*

The pre-moon party has been a tradition since long before Bucky was born. There are people who say it goes back centuries, to before their ancestors escaped persecution and fled to America for a new life, only to find that the New World was full of the same people who had hunted them before. Bucky’s not sure how long it’s been a tradition, but he knows why they have it.

As the moon grows to full, there is always the war inside them, the pull of the instincts that they manage to hold at bay for so much of the month. Pre-moon is a bit like being drunk, and a bit like being free. It’s a chance for the pack to bond, coming together without all the bullshit of their human lives rubbing over them. They are just the pack here, in this clearing, and later as they run through the forest. These nights there’s a lot of fighting and a lot of fucking. Couples slink off into the trees together to explore, well, the more well-mannered do. Sometimes you’ll find a couple that gets a little too excited too soon. But it’s the Moon party, so no one minds it too much as long as they’re subtle about it.

It’s Steve’s job, as alpha, to light the small bonfires they burn every time. Of course, they're not quite the same as they used to be. They've even got fire safety protocols for them these days. He gives a little speech about how they are stronger together and how he believes in them. From anyone else’s mouth it would sound like bullshit, but from Steve it sounds uplifting, like this is worth more than just their instincts.

It will also be Steve’s job, when the moon hits its peak and the bonfires are extinguished, to start the howl that will begin the chase.

Bucky’s been worse than usual this month. It’s been all he can do at times to keep his wolf-shape down. He’s been giving into his instincts more often. The other day he actually let Clint stroke him. What the fuck was up with that? Sure, he’s been trying not to avoid him anymore, but Bucky’s not a dog, he doesn’t need his ears scratched.

Steve hasn't let him live it down. Sometimes he just needs to look at Bucky for Bucky to know he's laughing at him. The man's a nightmare.

But it's a good reminder that Bucky needs to get a hold of himself, especially around Clint. He’s going to steer clear. He’s going to keep everything under control. Once the full moon is over, he’ll have worked it all out of his system and he’ll be steady again, no more needing to stick his nose right into Clint's personal space just to surround himself with his scent.

Steve finishes lighting the bonfires and the cheers go up. Bucky doesn’t join in. He doesn’t hate the full moon, he knows it’s a necessity, but he doesn’t feel the same enthusiasm he always had when he was younger, after he was finally of age and allowed to join in. There had been a sense of belonging back then, and the way his blood had risen with the moon, pumping with the fierce joy of it all, had been a revelation every time.

But there’s an old wives’ tale – old wolves’ tale – that a wolf who has tasted human or wolf flesh will become feral. The kind of story you scare the pups with. To taste werewolf blood will make you faster, stronger, but it will rob your humanity, trap you in a half-shift state where all you crave is more, until you’re nothing but a monster.

Steve tells him it’s nonsense, but Bucky isn’t so sure. Before they took him, before the cages and the fights, he’s sure he hadn’t felt like this all the time – with the wolf thrumming under his skin. And he knows the bloodlust wasn’t there, not like this.

Killing those other wolves did something to him.

Bruce says that the drugs they were shot up with, to put them into the feral state, affected their body chemistry permanently – and their wolf-shapes. Bucky knows it broke the pack bond. It had taken months for him to rebuild it, but never quite the same again. He doesn’t fit into the place he had left, so everything’s a bit off centre now.

What it mostly comes to is that things smell different, feel different, to him now. He reacts in the wrong way to things. The aggression is always right there, waiting to be set free. Especially around the full moon.

All shifters experience the pull. Everything becomes that little bit more immediate and instinctual. More pups are conceived at the full moon than at any other time of the month. Mated pairs can’t keep their hands off each other, and Bucky can see them already starting around him, now the party’s officially started. Steve’s already found Tony, cornering him against a tree, nose buried in the curve of his throat. Tony’s as shameless as any wolf, even if he doesn’t have a drop of were blood in him, his hands groping at Steve’s ass.

The crowd is thinning out as well, as more people duck into the woods to find somewhere a little more secluded. And then there are the rowdy ones, who are already swiping at each other in playful mock fights.

But no one else is as out of control as he feels. Even now, he can’t give himself over completely, though he knows as the moon continues, he’ll get more and more lost in it. He feels half feral. It’s not just the usual rush. He can feel the weight of the moon fraying his already tenuous control. If someone so much as looks at him funny, he might snap.

He tried to sit it out once, trap himself in his house away in the woods and work through it alone, too scared of hurting someone to join the rest of them. But it had been worse. He’d almost pulled the whole thing down on himself and Helen had pursed her lips at the gouges in his arm when he’d come to see her the next morning, one of his old t-shirts wrapped around him to stem the bleeding. The feeling of being alone is worse for him, and it makes his control even less firm, so he comes to the pack party and keeps himself as self-contained as possible.

If he does snap, at least there are enough adult wolves around here to take him down.

The fighting has already begun, a mighty war cry going up that is probably from Thor, and Bucky pulls back.

The scents are overwhelming. There’s the warm tang of the bonfire, the fresh air of the forest, and the multiple warring scents of the pack around him, lust and joy and aggression layering over each other into a cloud of pheromones and desire.

At the same time, it’s comforting, scenting pack so close, burying himself in it and knowing he’s not alone. Bucky hates the conflict of it.

He does as he usually does and steps a bit further away from the fires, to where the scents aren’t as strong, but they can still be found.

He almost bumps into Sam and Natasha, who are slinking away from the main clearing. Sam gives him a sly little salute as he passes and Natasha hardens her eyes, clearly wanting him to be elsewhere.

He makes himself scarce, Bucky could do without witnessing that. It’s enough that he’s had to watch Tony and Steve be all over each other all day. Tony seems determined that, even though he can’t sense it himself, he’s going to scent mark Steve just so everyone knows they’re together. He claims it’s for science, but mostly he’s just a possessive bastard. Steve just acts fond, as though the attempts are charming and not sickening, and tells Bucky he’ll find a suitable mate some day. They both know that’s not on the cards, though. The drugs screwed him up so much that he probably wouldn’t know a suitable mate if he ran into one.

He glares up at the moon, halting the howl that’s threatening to rise out of his throat. The moon is a dick, anyway. What? It couldn’t take one month off?

A little further away from the pack again, and the roar of their voices dies down, though the scents still roll out to him, keeping him on the right side of calm.

He leans back against a tree, and reminds himself that this is a terrible idea, and maybe he’d be better off tearing strips out of himself in private, the same way he reminds himself every month. But he does it anyway, leans back against the tree, closes his eyes and breathes it all in, letting it flood into him.

Bucky can feel it all filter through him, hitting his blood stream like a drug. The high of the moon and the pack sense, carrying him along. He can feel the world expanding, like this night could last forever.

He can smell them all, Sam and Nat quite close, but not in sight. Thor and his gang in the centre, Steve and – to a lesser extent – Tony. Bruce is there too, though he won’t transform.

And then, in the swirl of it all there is an extra scent, a hint that makes his nostrils twitch. It tingles and his head snaps towards it like a meerkat.

A deep breath sends it flooding through his nose and he can feel his body relax at it.

It smells… familiar, but different somehow, like the moon has added depth to a flavour he already enjoyed. It comes again, stronger, and Bucky’s moving before he can stop himself. It should, by rights, be lost in the miasma that is the pack scent. He can’t even pick out Steve’s scent without concentrating, but for some reason, this scent stands out. Put him in a sewer beneath a slaughterhouse and he’d still be able to pick out this scent.

As he takes a third, even deeper inhale of the air, he can feel, as though from a distance, his tenuous grasp on his control slip.

He’s walking towards the scent, stepping over roots and around trees without even registering them. His brain is fogged up with it, moving molasses-slow and just as bittersweet.

He shouldn’t be doing this, but all of his objections are drowned in the instincts running through him. That smell, it’s caught hold of something deep inside him. He has to find the source.

He just follows his nose directly where it takes him, to the edge of the pack, into the shadows, towards the person whose scent it is.

He finds them, standing alone and watches them.

“Bucky,” a voice says. It sounds far away over the rush of his pulse in his ears. He can’t summon up enough thought to make words, just steps forwards again. The moon, peering through the canopy, catches on pale hair and wide eyes. “Are you alright?” the face asks. “I wondered what was going on and I came out to…”

Bucky frowns, because he’s going to have to talk, but he knows he can’t step closer without permission.

“Can I…” he drags the words out of his mouth and gestures towards the man.

“Can you what?” the guy asks. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” Bucky says, because it’s true. “Can I scent you?”

Wide blue eyes blink and dart around.

“Is everyone else here too?” the man asks. Bucky knows his name, he knows he does, but wolf names are different from human names. Wolves are named by their scent and Bucky knows his scent too and that’s all that matter right now. He wants to roll around in it, wants it covering his skin. He just wants to smell this forever. “Should I get Steve?”

“No Steve,” Bucky says. “Please,” the word comes out after a moment. “Can I scent you?” he asks again. He needs the answer to be yes, please let it be yes. He’s so close now. To have to turn back would be…

“Uh, Is that a demon thing? I mean, you're not going to… I mean, sure?” the man says, and Bucky crosses over to him in two strides, burying his nose in the pale line of his neck, feeling the stubble scratch against his cheek. Blonde hair tickles at his ear, and Bucky can finally – finally – smell it properly.

He knows he makes a noise, can feel it vibrating through him, but he can’t bring himself to worry what it is, because now he’s got that scent filling up his nose completely and everything else is just so much bullshit. This is where he's meant to be, with the full moon overhead and this scent surrounding him. It's perfect. He wants to howl with how perfect it is, but that would mean pulling his head back and he can't do that.

That’s their only point of contact, just his face against the man’s neck. He wants more, but he doesn’t need it, he can take just this. It’s perfect and not enough, and he can wait for permission to get more.

“Want you,” he mutters into the skin of his mate’s neck, right over his pulse. He wants to taste the skin there, but he has not been given permission. “Please,” he says.

“Fuck, you’re definitely drunk,” his mate says. Bucky frowns, because he’s not drunk. He’s moon-happy and mate-high, but he’s not drunk. He’s surrounded by the greatest scent he has smelled in a long time and his pack is nearby. The moon is high and heavy with fullness, shining down so bright it might as well be daylight. “I should… find someone,” his mate – Clint. _Clint_ , his mate’s name is Clint. He feels warm and he smells fascinating, and Bucky is just very, very happy right now. He says his mate’s name, slow and rumbly, trying to convey just how happy he is.

“Oh god, Buck,” Clint says. “You’re going to be the death of me. Now, take a step back so we can get you back to someone who you trust.”

“Trust you,” Bucky says.

“No, we both know that’s not true,” Clint tells him. “And let’s be honest, you shouldn’t. I’m not trustworthy. But I’m not about to… take advantage of you when you’re drunk out of your mind and you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Bucky protests, pulling back to look down into Clint’s face, he watches the line of Clint’s throat as he swallows.

“Oh?” Clint asks. “And what’s that, then?”

“Asking you to be mine,” Bucky says. Clint’s skin flushes dark, and his eyes grow even wider. His hand jumps up to push through his hair and Bucky leans forwards to sniff at the thin skin of his wrist. He wants to rub his head over it, so he does. He has been given permission to scent.

“Woah, you are so out of it,” Clint tells him. “Look. It’s not that I don’t… you’re… very hot when you aren’t looking at me like you want me dead. Well… you’re pretty hot when you look at me like that, too. You’re hot all the time, I guess. But that’s not the point, because I’m an asshole, but I’m not this asshole, okay?”

“My asshole,” Bucky says with a grin.

“Pretty sure we don’t want to be talking about your asshole right now,” Clint tells him with a shaky laugh. Bucky can smell the arousal on him. He knows he is wanted, but his mate is not saying yes.

“Can I kiss you?” Bucky says slowly, raising a hand to ghost over the edge of Clint’s jaw, not quite touching, although he can see Clint’s face twitch to push into it, but he holds himself back.

“Not a good idea,” Clint says. “You are definitely compromised right now. And you will literally kill me in the morning. I have too many people who already want to kill me and I just got you to stop hating me. I’d like to keep it that way, so how about we go and find Steve–”

“Steve’s with Tony,” Bucky says. “They’re probably fucking by now.” Clint blinks again.

“Uh… right…” he says. “So Natasha then?”

“Natasha’s with Sam,” Bucky says, leaning forwards to take another deep breath of Clint. It’s refreshing, like a palate cleanser, cleaning out all the cobwebs in Bucky’s brain. “They’re fucking too…”

“Jesus Christ,” Clint says. “What is this? The local orgy?”

“Something like that,” Bucky says. “We could join-“

“NO,” Clint says. “Do not finish that sentence. Just don’t. Right. I need to… well, if everyone else is out here? But you don’t… I don’t even know where to begin. I mean, no kink-shaming, because I’ve done some freaky shit in my time. But you guys seriously come out to the woods, get drunk, or high or whatever and then have mad group sex orgies?”

“No,” Bucky says. “No group sex. Just… sex nearby.”

“I’m not sure how that’s different, but cool. Cool… I just…” he pauses.

“Can I touch you?” Bucky says.

“It’s sweet the way you seem to think that I’m the one whose consent is needed right now,” Clint tells him. “Sure you can touch me, just keep it above the belt, okay, and over the clothes.”

Bucky frowns, but he can do that. He lets his palm run down from Clint’s ear, along the length of his arm to Clint’s hand, picking it up gently and raising it to his face, scenting along it, then using it to tug Clint in closer, wrapping his arm around him, pulling him right in so they are plastered against each other along their torsos.

His body is thrumming with it now, he can feel Clint’s heartbeat in every inch of his body that is pressed against him. He wants to bite and claim and take. He can feel it rising in his blood, in his mind. This man is  _his_. He needs to get him to understand that.

“Cuddles, huh?” Clint says. “Okay, I can do cuddles. Then we need to get you somewhere you’re less…” Bucky can’t help the way his arm clutches a bit tighter. He can feel the wolf pressing against his mind, not wanting to think of letting go. But he is the wolf and the wolf is him and they aren’t so separate right now. He can feel it pushing through his skin.

Everything is heat between them. He strokes his hand over Clint’s back, feeling the shapes of the muscles underneath it, and the curve of his spine, and feels Clint’s arms around him as well, holding them together. Their scents are mixing a bit in the air and it the urge to howl gets stronger. 

“Bucky,” Clint says. “We should…” Bucky traces his fingers over the lines of the muscles in Clint’s back again. He can remember seeing them without this layer of cloth over them, with a sheen of sweat, rippling, and his mouth goes dry. He wants. Fuck, he wants so bad. There’s a whine caught at the back of his throat and-

“Barnes!”

The hand that rips him away is small, but powerful and Bucky turns with it, dropping into a snarling stance, hand up and claws out. The fox stands in front of him, in human shape, snarling right back.

“Uh,” Clint says behind him, but Bucky stays firmly between him and the threat.

“Barnes!” the fox says again, he growls at her, low and menacing, making it clear that pack or not, she should back the hell off. “Down boy. You need to get control of yourself.” Her claws dig into his shoulders, sending little shards of pain into his brain, shaking something loose but he can’t get a hold of it.

Something is wrong.

His ears catch on something and he turns his head just in time to see a fist flying towards him, hitting him right in the face.

There’s the sound of movement from behind him and then he hears Sam grunt in pain and Natasha growl under her breath.

“What the fuck?!” Clint wails. “First it’s an orgy now it’s… what? Fight club? Sam? What the hell?”

Bucky blinks, the pain cuts through the haze of moon-madness and he shakes it off, looking between Natasha and Sam, who just hit him. They are sloppily dressed, like they pulled their clothes on in a hurry. They probably did.

He looks down at his hand, elongated and half-shifted, claws out, and his tongue pushes against the fangs in his mouth.

Clint’s hand comes up to rest on his shoulder and Bucky snatches his hand into his chest, quickly, hoping desperately that he didn't see.

“Are you alright?” Clint asks. “What the fuck was that, Sam?”

“He needed something to snap him out of it,” Sam says, uncompromising. He's right. Bucky hates when he's right. “You okay, Robin?”

“Who, what?” Clint says. “I’m fine. But Bucky…”

“Is fine, or he will be after he walks it off,” Sam says. Bucky’s still too busy looking down at his hand in horror and remembering the thick, rich feeling of grasping at Clint and wanting to taste him, to take him. He pulls in his shift, making sure he's completely human, then turns round, to check.

Clint looks… wrecked. There are red marks across his neck that Bucky doesn’t remember making and there are scratches down his arm that look too sharp to have been made by fingernails.

“Fuck,” Bucky says and pulls away. Clint steps after him, but Natasha moves between them.

“Why the fuck did you hit him?” Clint asks.

“I have to…” Bucky says, looking at Natasha. He mouth is a thin, narrow line. She is angry. And her eyes tell him clearly that she knew this would happen. “I have to go…”

He darts away, leaving Clint to call after him.

Shit. He almost… He almost did something stupid. He runs through the trees until he finds a spot where no one will see him unless they look, sinks down to his ass, back pushed against the hard bark and stares at the sky.

Clint doesn’t even know what he is. Clint has no idea what he just walked into, and Bucky was so close to being completely out of control. He had threatened Natasha. He had been so fogged up with lust and the moon and his fucking wolf instincts, that he’d been a hairs breadth away from biting Clint right then and there.

He’s got to get himself under fucking control.

That’s when he remembers the thought, cutting through his mind over all the others, strong enough to pierce through his skull: _mate_.

*

Clint watches Bucky tear off into the woods and turns to Natasha and Sam, repeating his earlier question because it bears repeating:

“What the fuck was that about?” he asks. He flexes his fingers. Punching someone in the face always hurts, but he’s not going to stand by and watch people just punch other people in the face when they haven’t even fucking done anything.

“Sam didn’t hit him as hard as it looked like,” Natasha says.

“Look, he’s… He’s kinda drunk,” Sam says at the same time. He’s rubbing at his jaw and wincing, but he doesn’t seem angry. Clint looks between them. “It was the best way to get him to snap out of it.”

“So now he’s on his own, drunk in the woods?” Clint throws his hands up. “I… I should go and look for him.”

“No,” Natasha says. “I’ll look for him. You shouldn’t be out alone in the woods this late at night.”

“And you should?” Clint asks.

“I know this place,” she says. “Also, it’s my job.”

“And is it your job to set your boyfriend to punch your friends out as well?”

“Hey!” Sam says. “Trust me, he’s fine. Maybe I could have found a better way, but it worked.” Sam looks very earnest all of a sudden. "What about you, man? You okay?”

“I’m good,” Clint says, unable to bring himself to say more. He has no idea what he's stumbled into here. There was something about Bucky as he whirled around, something not quite human. Maybe it was the dim light, or maybe there really are demons in this town. What is going on here?

Sam’s looking down at where the hem of Clint's shirt has torn. Bucky must have grabbed it harder than Clint thought. Then he notices the scratch marks on his arm. They don’t hurt, but his skin’s pale enough that they stand out. “Oh, that’s nothing. He didn’t hurt me. And I swear I didn’t touch him.”

“I know you didn’t,” Sam says. “If you had this would have been a different conversation. But he was coming on pretty strong and he’s…” Sam waves a hand which Clint takes to mean ‘built like a brick wall’ or maybe 'possessed by a demon'. Is there a sign for possessed by a demon? Clint's knowledge of ASL boils down to a couple of lessons when he was a kid and a summer that he spent making out with a deaf girl whenever Barney wasn't watching. They'd been more interested in the making out than the talking. "You're sure he didn't hurt you or..."

“No, he was sweet,” Clint replies, flushing a bit at the memory. Sweet and completely out of it.

“Good, that’s good,” Sam says. “Now, I’m going to walk you back to the guesthouse then come back here and help Nat look for Barnes, okay?”

“You gonna punch him again?” Clint asks. Sam shakes his head.

“Just needed to get him thinking straight again. The pain clears things up a bit. But it’s best if you’re not here when he gets back.”

Clint looks around, there’s the glow of fire through the trees and he can hear sounds of laughter. It feels a lot like being left out at school because he’s the funny carnie kid who showed up late and who won’t be there long enough for anyone to care.

“Right… so you guys do this a lot?”

“It’s a monthly thing,” Sam says. “Sort of a… local thing.”

“Invite only,” Clint agrees, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I get it. Sorry for crashing the party.”

“Don’t be,” Sam tells him. “Things just get a bit complicated.”

“Yeah, I can see how an open air orgy with fire could get complicated,” Clint agrees. Sam chuckles.

“Trust me, it’s worse in winter,” he says.

“You do this in winter too?” Clint asks.

“Yep,” Sam tells him. “Don’t ever talk to me about frostbite, okay?”

Clint’s mind goes there before he can stop it, and he winces, a full body wince at the kind of idea that you feel down to your bones.

“Come on,” Sam says, resting the hand that he just used to punch Bucky on Clint’s shoulder. Clint’s not okay with that, he can’t be okay with that, but it’s not like he hadn’t returned the favour, and everything he’s seen of Sam says he’s a good guy. Not that that means shit.

Fuck, what the hell is going on in this town?

*

“So tell me what happened, exactly.” It’s Steve’s voice that Bucky hears first.

“Robin must have come to find out what was going on,” Natasha responds. “Bucky got one sniff of him and went half feral. Sam and I had to break it off.”

Steve’s weary sigh is a thing of beauty and Bucky’s been the cause of it far more than he should have been. At one time he would have been proud of eliciting that sigh, Steve has given him enough heart attacks over the years that it’s only right and proper that Bucky should be giving him a few of his own. But right now he’s just tired. The full moon always takes it out of him, but not like this.

His mind registers the meaning of the words slowly, like it’s coming into focus, and he remembers what happened, bile rising in his throat.

“Did Pevensie see anything?” Steve asks, and Bucky wants to say ‘that’s not his name’, but he holds his tongue, even though he shouldn’t. It’s his duty to tell the alpha of the pack all the relevant information that might cause the pack harm. But it was a name told to him in confidence and… Clint, Clint deserves better than that. Bucky’s fucked him over enough.

He’d been half-feral.

“Not that I’m aware,” Natasha says. "Though Bucky was part way through transforming at one point."

“Didn’t seem to have seen a thing on the way home,” Sam says. Oh great, he’s there too. It’s the full Bucky Barnes Intervention squad. Bucky wonders if he could suddenly learnt to shift into a smaller form, so small that he could slip past them undetected, but he’s never managed it yet, and he knows all about the laws of conservation of mass and that shit. "I'm not as good at interrogation as Nat, but he seemed confused and a bit angry. Although he did ask some questions about demons and playing rock music backwards. So,” Sam continues, “now he thinks we hold midnight orgies every month and dance around skyclad or whatever. Not sure if that’s better or worse.”

“Better,” Natasha and Steve both say together. They know what happens if the secret gets out. "And true," Natasha adds.

Bucky wants to think that Clint isn’t like that, but he can’t be sure. It’s disturbing how fast Clint has gone from ‘suspicious outsider’ to something almost like a friend in Bucky’s mind, almost like more.

“It’s one less problem to worry about,” Steve says.

“Or a different problem to worry about,” Sam says. Bucky can almost hear the smirk in his voice. “So what do we do about the other thing.”

“We keep them apart,” Natasha says.

“What?” Steve asks. Bucky echoes the sentiment.

“Bucky is volatile, Robin is temporary, that is not a good combination. Humans do not…” she pauses. “Marriage is not the same as mating. There is a level of commitment involved that humans –“

“If you’re about to tell me that humans aren’t capable of that level of commitment then we’re going to have a problem,” Steve says, his voice tight and dangerous. It’s a good thing Tony isn’t in the room, Bucky knows that statement would have cause him no end of issues.

“That’s… You and Tony are different. You came at your relationship from a different place. But Bucky wasn’t wrong when he said Robin had trouble following after him, and Bucky is not without his issues. Their relationship would be… inadvisable,” she says.

“Pretty sure you said that about our relationship too,” Sam adds. Maybe Bucky doesn't hate the guy. “Look, the two of them like each other. No one said anything about mating.”

“Bucky did, last night.”

“Bucky was high on moon-rays last night,” Sam interrupts. “He was half-feral you said it yourself. Sure they’re potential mates, but you meet a couple of dozen potential mates in your lifetime. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Bucky’s never met one before,” Natasha says. That’s not true, not really. Before they took him, before the cages and the fighting and the chemicals, he had sometimes scented something, a tang of possibility, but no one had ever held his attention, not like Clint – even if Bucky didn’t understand why.

“But I have now,” Bucky says, opening his eyes and taking in the scene. Natasha’s sitting, prim and proper. If she were in fox-shape her tail would be swishing from side to side. Steve is standing, hands braced on the back of an empty arm chair, and Sam stands in the doorway, arms crossed.

They are in Steve and Tony’s home, and Bucky is naked under the rug that someone must have pulled over him.

“Seems like maybe some of you already knew that,” Bucky says, sitting upright and eyeing Steve and Natasha meaningfully. “You didn’t think that was maybe something I should know about?”

“I did tell you," Natasha says. "You were convinced it wasn't true. There didn’t seem to be any point pressing the matter when it wouldn’t go anywhere.”

“Maybe I would have been more prepared for an encounter like last night,” Bucky suggests. She shrugs.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“I should have told you,” Steve says. “I thought… I thought you’d worked it out for yourself after you started hanging out with him more. And I saw you with him in wolf-shape. That seemed like you knew.”

“Well I didn’t,” Bucky says.

“I hoped that, if you figured it out, and you talked about it… then maybe he wouldn’t go,” Steve says, shaking his head. “You know Tony wasn’t planning on sticking around when he first got here.”

“Until you won him over with your charm and wit,” Bucky says. “By which I mean your dick.”

“Do we have to talk about Steve’s dick again?” Sam asks, stepping forward to offer Bucky a glass of water. “I think we all heard enough about that last night.” Steve blushes, although Bucky can’t imagine he’s really embarrassed by whatever he and Tony got up to last night, he never is. “And saw enough… I swear I will never get used to that part of being a shapeshifter.”

“It happens every month,” Natasha says.

“And it’s not like I can shift with my clothes on,” Steve says. Sam still looks unhappy about the whole thing. It's different for people who become weres, rather than being born this way. Bucky sometimes wonders what that must be like.

“Back to what Steve said a minute ago,” Natasha says, turning back to Bucky with a face full of determination. “You hang around with Robin in wolf-shape?”

“I…” Bucky shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“And what do you do, when you _hang out_ with him in wolf-shape?” she asks, her tone dangerous.

“We… he talks to me,” Bucky says.

“Last time I saw you, you were getting tummy scratches,” Steve says. Bucky shoots him a heavy glare.

“And you didn’t realise he was a potential mate?” Natasha asks. Bucky can feel his hackles rising.

“No,” he grinds out. It hadn’t even crossed his mind. The chemicals they’d shot him up with had screwed him up in a lot of ways.

“And he didn’t realise that the wolf he was petting was you?” she asks.

“No,” Bucky says. “Why would he? He doesn’t even know werewolves are real. I didn’t give anything away.”

Natasha draws in a deep breath and lets it out again slowly.

“That is not the problem. The problem is that you-“ she jabs her finger at him “- took advantage of him.”

“Bucky wouldn’t do that,” Steve says immediately.

“No?” Natasha asks. “What do you call getting someone to trust and confide in you, and engage in heavy petting, under false pretences?” Bucky and Steve share a look. Bucky can see where she’s coming from. When you think about it that way it sounds… well, it sounds like a shitty thing to do, to be honest. And Bucky can’t even claim that wasn’t his intention. He’d started this whole thing by using his wolf-shape to try and find out more about the interloper. And then he’d encouraged the guy to see him as a pet.

He’d thought that that was just to protect the pack, but maybe that had been an excuse the whole time, maybe he just wanted to get closer to Clint.

Was it sick that he’d enjoyed himself like that?

Had he been getting off on those touches that had been intended so innocently?

No. It hadn’t been sexual. But it had been nice: to be touched, to be so comfortable with someone. _With his mate_ , a part of his brain said.

He was a blind idiot. How had he not noticed?

“You need to apologise to him,” Natasha says. “For last night at the very least. And you need to decide what you’re going to do about the situation. In my opinion the best course of action is to cut all ties.”

Bucky looks at her and nods. She’s right, about the first thing anyway.

But that’s not an easy decision to make.

Bucky’s not a good bet. If the Moon party had shown him anything, it’s that. He’s not safe. He’d had his claws out, for God’s sake.

Nothing happened.

But Bucky can’t ignore any more that he wants something to happen. Sure he wants to sleep with the guy, but he wants something more than that. He has probably wanted something to happen for a while now. When he lets himself think about Clint, he feels a strange tightness in his chest.

“You aren’t as dangerous as you think you are,” Steve says, but Bucky just shoots him a look. Steve has no idea.

“I have to –“ he starts, then shifts because he’s not sure how he wants to finish that sentence.

“Typical,” Sam says. “Anything to avoid talking to me, huh Barnes?” Bucky shakes his head dismissively and jumps off the sofa. He’s in Steve’s house and that is comforting. The smell of packmate and alpha is so permeated into this place that it’s like being wrapped up in a big blanket of all his best memories. Of course, these days the place smells just as much like Tony, but that doesn’t seem to matter. The two of them are happy together and their happiness is everywhere.

He leaves the three others behind and goes to wander the rest of the house. He can’t bring himself to go to see Clint yet, but he doesn’t want to wander the streets either, not today. He certainly doesn’t want to go back to Steve, Tasha and Sam.

In the end, he finds his way to the workshop where Tony is under the hood of Jane Foster’s jeep. The music is going, though it’s at a lower volume than usual, and Tony is muttering to himself as he works. Bucky suspects Jane will have a completely new car by the time Tony’s finished with it.

He jumps onto the ratty old sofa that Tony keeps by the wall, and lowers his head onto his front paw, letting the music drown out his thoughts for a little while.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been there before the music turns down a bit further and he hears Tony’s voice call across the room.

“Hey there, Shaggydog!” Bucky lifts his head on as uninterested a manner as he can. “Gonna have to start charging you rent in a minute. Shove over so I can take a load off.”

Bucky considers this for a moment. Tony doesn’t often use the sofa. It’s more for guests, but it does belong to him so it does count as his territory. He stands up and shuffles round a bit so there’s just enough room for Tony to sit down.

“Very generous,” Tony says. “So what are you huffing and puffing about over here? Should warn you that there’s a no sulking policy in the workshop.”

Bucky huffs, looking up at Tony pointedly, and Tony gives a small grin.

“It’s my workshop, I can break the rules if I want to.”

Considering that this is where Tony holes up whenever he and Steve have an argument, that’s probably a rule that’s broken more than it’s upheld.

“You know I’m no good at the touchy feely stuff. That’s what I have Steve for,” Tony goes on. “But I’m guessing that this is probably Steve’s fault, at least a little bit.” Bucky gives his best wolfy equivalent of a shrug. If Steve had told him earlier that he thought Clint was a potential mate, there’s no telling how things would have gone down. He probably wouldn’t have spent last night molesting the man and almost attacking him. Of course, they would have still ended up in the same place in the end. Natasha has a point too. Bucky’s volatile and Clint’s moving on just as soon as he catches up with his brother.

“He wants you happy,” Tony says, looking away. “He’s not very good at taking no for an answer on that front.” Tony sighs and leans back into the sofa. “I know I can’t exactly see this from your point of view, for one thing, I’m bipedal at all times and I’m given to understand there’s a certain olfactory factor that I don’t get at all. Wolf noses, right? But maybe I can give you an idea about the human part of this equation.” Bucky whines in question. “Right, that was either a ‘please go on’ or a ‘shut up, Tony’; as you’re not snapping at me I’ll take it as continue.

“The guy’s got no idea werewolves exist,” Tony points out unnecessarily. “And that’s all sorts of fucked up. But Steve… he makes me better. I still don’t know how I managed it. And got to admit, after I got used to it, the whole werewolf thing’s kind of hot. It’s the way he can hold me up and-“

Bucky growls. He does not need to hear this.

“And a little bit of claw goes a long way.” Bucky growls again, but Tony just laughs.

“Look, Rin Tin Tin, I don’t know you as well as…” Tony waves a hand in a way that might mean _Steve_  or the pack or literally anyone else in town. “And I know we’re not really bosom buddies or whatever – also, I might be biased because Steve is my bosom buddy, and I do mean bosom. Have you seen-“

Bucky growls again. He’s beginning to regret this decision.

“Fine. What I’m trying to say is that you're being an idiot.”

Bucky huffs and turns to give Tony the side-eye.

“Oh don't give me that look. You… well, I never knew you before, but I’ve heard the stories and seen the pictures, and shit happened. But since then, you’ve been well… grumpy and isolationist isn’t really a good look on anyone, Timmy. I’ll admit you really sell the dark, broody loner schtick. I think it’s the hair. But you’ve got to change it up. Don’t get stuck in a rut. You’ve got to keep moving forwards. Try new things, if they don’t work, try something else. You don’t want to be obsolete, K-9.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and kicks at Tony lightly with his back leg.

“Right, right. Getting to the point. The point being, since Mr Pevensie arrived, you’ve been out and about more. I’ve even seen you crack a smile. I saw you wagging your tail – and don’t try and tell me that’s not a wolf thing, I’ve done my research. You might never be the same as you were, but that doesn’t mean you’re stuck with who you were after that either.

“So maybe give it a go, is all I’m saying. You’re convinced that you’re the big bad wolf, but it’s worth a try, right? Just ask the guy on a date. When you find something that makes you happy, try to keep hold of it. And that’s the limit of my pop-psychology pep talk for today. Come back tomorrow to learn how to live your best self and other assorted bullshit.”

Tony brushes his hands off and stands up, stretching his arms over his head.

“Seriously, Lassie. Go chase wabbits or something. I’m busy.”

Bucky does not move, mostly just to be contrary, but partially because Tony has given him something to think about.

He’s not thought about this as a good thing before. Hasn’t even considered that it could be.

This has been something that he Could Not Have for years now. A mate, a life where he actually interacts with the pack. He’s convinced himself that he’s on the outside looking in, but why does he have to stay that way?

He’s never been the kind to sit around and think about things. He’s a doer.

And Tony’s right – he’s never going to say that out loud – he’s been happy.

So screw it. He hasn’t hurt the guy yet. He can steer clear of him at full moons.

One date can’t hurt. A proper date where they sit and talk to each other and maybe engage in some light petting where they're both aware of each other's identities.

He turns human again and stalks naked through the house until he finds some pants and a shirt. He finds Steve in the kitchen, sipping coffee, and one look at the expression on Bucky’s face makes him grin.

“About fucking time, Barnes.”


	9. O Brother, Where Art Thou?

Okay. So apparently he’s wound up in some sort of swinger town. Clint can roll with that. Monthly orgies are… cool. Not really what he was expecting, but… Demons would probably have been worse. Definitely worse. Sex is... well, considering the rest of what Clint was thinking, massive outdoors sex parties are practically normal. And also... something he could maybe get behind.

He gets a flash of memory of Bucky’s body right up against him, hard muscle and solid warmth so hot that Clint could almost burn right through his clothes, fingernails running down his arms, his face buried in Clint’s neck just breathing him in.

Sure, Clint thinks Bucky’s hot. He’s come to terms with that now. He’s got eyes and his sexuality’s all over the place. They’re even, sort of friends now, and Clint likes the guy. Properly likes him. Seeing Bucky actually makes him happier. The guy can be funny when he wants to be, and kind and...yeah, still hot. But in a different way, in a way where sometimes he smiles and Clint wants to taste it. And honestly, out there in the woods, with Bucky right there, coming on to him so strong that he’s practically stripping, and Clint had – just for a second – thought ‘holy shit I can have this’. But then he’d realised just how fucked up it all was and...

It was like a dream. A crazy hot sex dream where Bucky just walked right up to him and – it’s not like that would be a weird dream to have. Clint has had that dream. More than once. Admittedly, they hadn’t been interrupted by Natasha in his dream, although he can see how that might happen. Hell, he used to earn his money by parading around in sparkly purple lederhosen and nothing else, it’s not like an exhibitionist streak is that much of a stretch.

So yeah, Bucky the hot and not really as grumpy as he seems bartender striding over to him like a force of fucking nature, asking to touch him and then proceeding to melt Clint’s brain out his dick. That’s totally a dream come true.

Except for the part where Bucky’s off his head and clearly barely in control of himself.

Clint can feel his toes curling and dick twitching at the memory. Like he hadn’t come home and had the guiltiest jerking off session of his life last night. 

But he has no clue what to say if he sees Bucky again. ‘Sorry I let you molest me while you were tripping balls?’

Was he tripping balls? Bucky doesn’t really seem like the party drug type, and if Clint’s not mistaken, it seemed like half the town was there having their ‘town meeting’ in the woods. Timely is a lot more interesting than he thought.

He sits on the edge of the bed and wonders what to even do with himself. He’s almost finished painting the guesthouse as well, now, and when that’s done, there really will be nothing left for him to do.

He’s stayed here too long anyway. Barney’s got to be arriving soon and Bucky – Bucky’s not the kind of guy Clint thinks he’d be able to walk away from.

He stands up and starts pacing the room, because he can’t think while he’s still. He needs something to do with his hands. He grabs something – the newspaper from the desk top, the one he’d got when they’d taken Wanda and Pietro to the bus station and sits down again to start turning it into paper darts.

He’s half way through, tearing strips off and folding them up, then throwing them so they wedge behind the top of the picture hanging on the wall.

He’s about to tear the paper one more time when what he’s looking at hits him in the face. The lettering, the images, every pixel of it.

Clint unrolls the paper in his hand, flattening it with his palm, smearing the print all over him.

The top part is missing, already hurled across the room, but there’s no mistaking what it says.

“Carson’s Travelling Carnival – the most exciting night of your life”

He stares at the words, blinking in the vain hope that that will remove them, that the advert will dissolve into something else. Anything else.

But the words stubbornly stay there, staring back at him.

He looks at the name of the town, the dates of the shows.

Two towns over. In two weeks' time. His blood freezes in his veins.

He has stayed here too long. He’s going to bring them here, to Timely. They’ll find him and they’ll tear this town apart looking for their money. But if he leaves now, then he'll draw more attention and what if Barney's close?

The knock at the door makes his heart flip over in his chest.

“Hello?” he calls, stuffing the newspaper into the bin and eyeing the window quickly. He knows he can get out that way, but would he have enough of a head start.

“Uh... Robin?” Bucky’s voice says through the door a little hesitantly. Clint’s heart sinks even further. If it keeps going, it’ll end up in the floorboards. Bucky’s here.

“Come in,” he calls back, his brain frantically trying to work out if there’s anything incriminating lying about. He doesn’t _think_ so.

Bucky walks in and Clint freezes where he sits, caught between what he needs to worry about most. On the one hand, Bucky might have come to punch him for taking advantage last night. On the other hand, the carnival is two towns over. Jacques is so close. Why does everything have to happen at once?

“You okay?” Bucky asks, looking at him in concern as he closes the door behind him. He looks good. Why does he look so good? Tight henley, tight pants, it's impossible to look away.

“I’m amazing,” Clint says, grinning bright and brittle. “I’m good. What’s up, Buck?”

“I... was.” Bucky’s hand is stuck into the pocket of his jeans, he seems to do that when he’s feeling nervous. What’s he got to be feeling nervous about? Unless he thinks Clint’s going to assault him or something.

Clint groans internally. They’d been getting on so well.

“You can open the door again if you want,” he says. Bucky pauses and looks at him as though he doesn't understand the offer.

“I’d prefer to keep it closed if that’s alright,” Bucky says. “I want to talk about last night, and I’d prefer it if Sam...”

“Right,” Clint says. He’s about to get told to fuck off. It’s not like that’s a surprise. In fact, it’s a good thing. This way he can disappear in the night and no one will care. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “You were really out of it and I shouldn’t have...”

“You’re sorry?” Bucky asks. His face gives nothing away.

“Uhm... yeah? I mean, town orgy, great, not judging. Super not judging. Town orgy with drugs? Great. Keep on keeping on and all that. You do you. Other obnoxious internet saying here. But I wasn’t invited and I wasn’t supposed to be there and you were... not in any way able to you know, consent to me... uh taking advantage of you when you were.” He can’t think of a word to describe what Bucky was last night.

“Huh,” Bucky says. “You think you were the one taking advantage of me?”

“Ye-es,” Clint says. He’s not sure how else you could see it.

“So you’re not freaked out by me... attacking you.”

“You attacked me?” Clint asks. He glances down at where the scratches had been on his arm, but they’re almost completely gone now. “I mean, you were enthusiastic and... affectionate. But that wasn’t. I wouldn’t call it _attacking_ me.”

“You didn’t notice anything?” Bucky asks.

“I noticed that you were out of it.”

They stare at each other and Clint has no idea what is going on right now. Bucky doesn’t seem mad. He seems... thoughtful. He keeps waiting for it to hit, the anger and the disgust, but that just isn’t happening.

This is a very strange town.

“Go out with me,” Bucky says.

“What?” Clint asks. He genuinely thinks he’s heard that wrong because that can’t be what Bucky just said.

“A date,” Bucky says. “Would you like to go to dinner with me?”

_Yes_ , Clint thinks immediately, he opens his mouth to say it. But this isn’t supposed to happen. Bucky’s supposed to be mad at him, yell at him and refuse to talk to him again and Clint is supposed to leave.

The newspaper is eyeballing him from the trash can.

Bucky’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve Clint’s shit.

“No,” he says, with his mouth, out loud. Bucky pulls back slightly, his face falling as he blinks in surprise. "I don't think that's a good idea." He swallows. He thinks of the advert in the trash can, the impending doom that's coming for him. He needs Bucky far, far away from him. "I think we should stay away from each other, actually. I... I'm being the smart one, for once in my life." He lets out a small, bitter laugh. "I can't do this."

“Right,” Bucky says. God, Clint takes one look at his face and he wants to take it back, wants to reach out and give the guy a hug. “Alright then. I guess that’s good to know. I suppose I’ll see you around.” He nods and turns on his heel and walks right out of the room.

Clint stares at the door for a minute, that turns into two, then he shuffles over to the bed and falls down face first to hiss muffled curses into the pillows.

He wishes he had never woken up this morning.

Fuck.

*

He's got two weeks before the carnival arrives in the area. Clint's on high alert, torn constantly between wanting to just run, and being terrified that that's what will get him in the end. He decides to see it out another week, not quite able to bring himself to leave. Barney's coming, he's got to believe that.

And if that's not hard enough, there's still Bucky. It's too small a town for him to avoid him completely. If life before Bucky liked him was awkward, life after Clint says ‘no’ is another level altogether.

Bucky’s consistently and aggressively polite. He says hello, he provides his drinks, he nods when they pass each other on the street. But there are no smiles, not when he notices Clint looking at him, though. Sometimes he’ll even catch himself smiling at Clint and then his face will go blank and he’ll walk away.

It sucks.

But Clint reminds himself that this is what he needed to happen. It might not be what he wanted, but it’s better this way.

It sucks even more that apparently his wolf buddy has decided to ditch him as well.

He finishes the painting on the walls of the guesthouse and he admires his work. This is his corner of something. Sure it belongs to Sam and Natasha, but he’s done something here, built something. It’s a small consolation prize, especially with no one to share it with, but it’s still something.

In a fit of defiance, he grabs a small pen knife from the tool kit and crawls under the porch. Fuck it, something here is going to remember his name. He carves it in carefully: Clint F Barton, and the date and sits back to look at it. It settles something in his chest. He was here, he is remembered.

He feels like he’s preparing to die. Maybe he is.

He hopes Barney gets here first.

He hopes Barney can get here at all.

*

Sam’s running low on some stuff, so Clint volunteers for a supply run, desperate to be useful now that the guesthouse is fully done up. It’s not a long walk to the general store, even if it is on the other side of town. And Clint is more than capable of carrying four bags of groceries. He doesn’t even juggle the eggs this time. The woman's more friendly now, smiles and asks him if he'll be going to the summer fayre that's happening in a couple of weeks. He's seen the posters up around town and he tells her he'll think about it, but if Barney doesn't come by the weekend, Clint's going to run for it. He's not going to be here by then.

It’s a beautiful day, the sun is up and the sky is clear, pure, unadulterated blue. Clint actually starts whistling one of the old carnival tunes, a jolly, slightly drunken melody. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it until someone joins in.

He takes three more steps before he freezes.

No one in Timely should know that tune. His mind flashes back to the ad in the paper. It hasn't been two weeks yet. But maybe they're here early - maybe they came early for him.

He doesn’t drop the eggs, for some reason that seems important. Though what good eggs are going to do him when Jacques and his crew get a hold of him, Clint has no clue.

He needs more time. But he knows he’d be thinking that ten years from now. He’ll always want more time.

Clint supposes he could throw the eggs at them.

A figure saunters out from behind the corner of the building, hands in pockets, sandy red hair and dark stubble over his jawline. He’s still whistling that jaunty little tune.

“Barney!” Clint isn’t sure whether he should hug the bastard or punch him in the face. Luckily for Barney, his hands are in use, so he can’t do either.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Clint asks, lowering his voice to a hiss. It’s been ages.

“Covering for your damn fool ass,” Barney says. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Clint says – well, it’s more of a wail. He lowers his voice to a hiss and looks around carefully, no one is near. “They wanted me to kill her, Barney. You know. You were there. I couldn’t do that. She wasn’t hurting anyone.”

“So you thought you’d put the target on our backs instead, little brother?” Barney asks. “No one ever accused you of having an abundance of brains.”

“Hey! I was smart enough to get away,” Clint protests.

“Yeah? How’s that going for you?” Barney looks around the street with a raised eyebrow, a smirk growing across his features. “Enjoying the simple life? Making friends?”

Clint stiffens.

“Nah,” he says. “I know better than that.”

“Yeah, kid,” Barney says, reaching an arm around Clint’s shoulders. “I know it sucks, but there’s no point getting to like people when you’re just passing through.”

“Don’t get attached,” Clint says dutifully. He knows Barney means well. It’s a lesson hard learned through trial and error and ten-year-old Clint had defied it more than once, but it had never ended well.

“I mean, look at this place,” Barney says. “How’d you even find it, it’s so small?” Clint feels a prickle of resentment. Strange and small as it might be, Timely’s become more than just a place to rest his head. “You must be sick and tired of talking about the weather and –“ Barney walks up to a telegraph pole and rips down a posted that’s been stuck up there. “ _Timely Summer Fayre_ ,” he reads out. “Guess you’ve got to see it to believe it. _Wagon rides, Dunk the Sheriff,_ and a _kissing booth_ ,” Barney shakes his head. “I thought places like this went the way of the dinosaurs.”

“We grew up in a place like this,” Clint points out, wincing as Barney balls up the poster and tosses it aside. He loves his brother, he really does, but Barney is an asshole. Peter spent ages putting those posters up last weekend.

“No,” Barney says. “We were _born_ in a place like this. We grew up with the carnival. We escaped a place like this.”

That’s not quite how Clint remembers it, but he knows better than to bring up their parents, or the childrens’ homes they stayed in after that. Barney prefers to forget any of that existed. Clint can understand the impulse, but it lurks at the back of his head and he can never quite ignore it the way Barney does.

“Well, you’re not stuck here anymore,” Barney says. “Let’s go get all your stuff, then we can put this hole in the map in our rear view mirror. Well… not exactly ours, but possession’s nine tenths of the law, right?” He must see something in Clint’s face, because the arm around Clint’s shoulders squeezes. “This will all be a bad memory, little brother.”

“Yeah… sure…” Clint says, and he starts to walk back to the guesthouse. It’s uncomfortable. The groceries batter between them and their shoulders keep knocking together, or they sway too far apart. “We can…” He trails off, because he was about to ask Barney to come back to the guesthouse with him, but there’s a part of his brain that rebels at the thought. He wants to keep this separate. His time in Timely is just for him. It doesn’t need to be invaded by the rest of his fucked up life.

“How about you wait here and I drop these off and grab my things,” Clint suggests. Barney’s arm tightens around his shoulders again.

“You think I’m letting you out of my sight? Carson’s is only a couple of towns over, Clint. You’re damned lucky I got to you first. You know they’re looking.”

Clint knows that’s true. He doesn’t feel very lucky though. He feels out of time, like everything’s slipping through his fingers.

“Come on,” Barney says. “Show me where you’ve been hiding yourself.” Clint forces his feet to move again.

“It’s good to see you Barney,” he says, realising he hasn’t even said that yet. He hasn’t said anything nice to his brother, which is a dick move. He’s the one that got them into this mess in the first place. But the words don’t come, heartfelt conversation isn’t really their thing. “I was starting to think you weren’t going to come.”

“Of course I came,” Barney says. “You’re my little brother. It’s my job, isn’t it: looking after you?” Barney squeezes Clint’s shoulders again, uncomfortably. “Though you don’t exactly make it easy, do you?”

Clint ducks his head and mutters an apology.

“Don’t apologise. You did what you thought was right. You’re too soft-hearted for your own good, you know that?”

Yeah, Clint knows that. He’s a pushover, always has been.

As they walk up town, towards the guesthouse, Peter hares past and spins round as he passes them calling out a cheerful ‘hey, Mr Pevensie’ before he disappears.

“Mr Pevensie,” Barney says with a sigh. “You’re terrible at aliases, you know? What’s Pevensie even from? Those books about the kids and the lion?”

“The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.” Clint says. “Mom used to read it to us.”

“Right, yeah, that was it. I can’t believe you remember that stuff.”

Clint shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

“But who even is that kid? You were laying low, right?” Barney looks after where Peter went with a hard look in his eyes.

“It’s a small town,” Clint protests quickly. "They don't know anything, it's just, people say hello here. That's how it is. I had to fit in."

“Yeah, but…”

“You weren’t here!” Clint snaps.

“Because I was busy keeping your dumb ass alive,” Barney points out, his voice low. He has a point. It’s Clint’s fault they’re in this mess and Barney’s got every reason to be pissed at him. Some people would have just left him to it.

“Yeah,” Clint says, his shoulders sagging under the weight of Barney’s arm. “I know.”

Luckily, no one else seems interested as they make their way back to the guesthouse. Tony seems to be engrossed in an engine and no one else on the street really knows ‘Robin’ that well. So at least Clint doesn’t have to explain away any other casual greetings – until they get to the guesthouse.

“Hey Robin,” Sam calls out when they come through the door. “You get the –“ he cuts off when he walks into the hall and sees that Clint is not alone. “Oh hi.” He gives Barney a quick look up and down and straightens up, tilting his head down a bit. “You must be Robin’s brother,” he says. He’s covered in flour, but there’s something imposing about him that Clint’s never really seen before.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Barney says, shooting Clint a look that clearly asks what the fuck he’s been saying to people. “Will Pevensie.”

“Robin and Will, huh?” Sam asks, holding out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too, Mr…?”

“Wilson,” Clint says quickly. Sam’s still staring at Barney, his expression is blank. “He runs the place and he’s been putting up with me. Here you go, Mr Wilson,” Clint hands off the groceries. “Glad I could help. I’ll be getting out from under your feet now.”

Sam finally turns away from Barney to look at Clint, raising an eloquent eyebrow at the ‘Mr Wilson’ before frowning outright at the rest. He opens his mouth to say something and Clint jumps in quickly. “Now B- Will’s here to pick me up.” He turns and starts to push Barney up the stairs. “We’ll go grab my stuff.”

“Hey,” Barney says, refusing to be moved. “You go grab your things. I’d like a glass of water – if you can spare one.”

Clint weighs his options. Leaving Barney here with Sam seems like a bad decision, but at the same time, raising a fuss about it is only going to make everything look sketchy.

“Sure!” Sam says. “You should stay for lunch.”

“No,” Clint and Barney say in unison.

“We need to get going,” Barney says. “Long journey ahead of us. You know how it is.” He smiles his sharp smile, the one he uses when he's dealing with marks and Clint should have kept him the hell out of Timely. It’s a nice place, and Barney is… not going to fit in. The quicker he packs his shit, the quicker he can get Barney out of here, though.

He’s runs up the stairs and starts grabbing things and shoving them into bags.

He’s not got enough bags.

More like he’s got too much stuff. How did he manage to accumulate this much stuff in two months?

Travel light. Don’t get attached. Keep your head down. He’s broken all the rules, hasn’t he? This stupid town and its stupid people.

He leaves everything he doesn’t need, takes what he came with and an extra change of clothes.

The action figure Bucky bought him is sitting on the small desk, shield extended, and he reaches out and pushes it in amongst his clothes before he can overthink it. It’s small, it’ll fit. He wishes he still had the flower Wanda gave him too, even if it would have dried out by now. It would be another memory to keep. But he never got it back off Pietro before they got on the bus.

Why does he feel so bad about this? He was always going to leave. He told everyone he wasn’t sticking around, so why does he feel like he’s abandoning them?

The porch is done. The guesthouse is all fixed up. Sure, he won’t make it to the fayre, but he never meant to. He’s just been here too long, that’s all, and he caught feelings for Bucky – for _Barnes_. They’ll fade as soon as he’s away from here. It’s just being cooped up in a small town. Things were intense. He’ll forget all of this when they’re back on the road again.

But… would it be so bad to stay?

His eyes fall on the newspaper on the bedside table, still open to the familiar artwork of the Carson’s Carnival ad.

He has to go.

Barney’s bad enough, but picturing Jacques or his cronies in this place, hearing them sneer at Timely, seeing what they’d do to the people here given half a chance. Clint’s not going to risk that.

He zips the bag shut over Captain Liberty’s face and hefts it up onto his shoulder. It’s heavier than he remembers it being. He grabs his archery stuff as well and looks around once more, before closing the door.

When Clint heads downstairs, Sam’s got his arms crossed over his chest and he’s looking at Barney with a distinctly unimpressed expression. Barney, on the other hand, seems right at home, sprawled in a chair, one ankle propped up on the opposite knee. As Clint opens his mouth to suggest that they get going, the door swings open and Natasha walks in, in full uniform. Clint sees Barney tense all over and he knows there’s no way Natasha misses it. She misses nothing.

“Heard there was a visitor,” she says. “You must be Robin’s brother.”

“Will,” Barney tells her, extending a hand, which she takes. “Robin wasn’t kidding about this being a small town, huh? I guess everyone’s heard about me by now.”

“Just those of us who need to know,” Natasha says. “You staying in town tonight?”

“Nah,” Clint says. “We were just leaving actually. We’ve got an appointment we need to keep. Right, Will?” He’s shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably, looking between the three of them. There is a very large chance that this is going to go horribly wrong.

“Yes, that’s right, ma’am,” Barney says, pushing himself up from where he’s leaning. “I hope my baby brother hasn’t been causing you too much trouble.”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Natasha replies, with a grin that shows all her teeth.

Clint wants to end the conversation and drag Barney out the door, but Sam catches his arm and pulls him off to one side.

“You really going to leave without saying goodbye?” he asks. The unimpressed look is now directed at Clint and his face crumples. Guess he’s always going to disappoint someone.

“I’d stick around, but there’s no time,” he says with a helpless shrug.

“Seems like you waited two months, you could stand to wait an hour or two longer.”

“I really am sorry,” Clint says, “I just…”

“You know you don’t have to go with him, right?” Sam asks, his voice low and serious. “If you want to stay, you can. And if he doesn’t take no for an answer, well he won’t be the first asshole I’ve thrown out of town.” Sam’s arms tense, his muscles bunching under his shirt.

“He’s my family,” Clint says. “He needs me.”

“ _That_ I believe. But do you need him?”

Two months ago, Clint would have said ‘yes’ without hesitation, but he actually considers the question now.

“Maybe not,” he acknowledges, feeling a little lighter for just having said it. “But he needs me, so I have to go.” He shrugs helplessly. Sometimes he hates the guy, but Barney is his brother and Clint always loves him.

Then there’s the fact that anyone who’s helping Clint will end up in trouble if Jacques gets wind of it. It’s rare you come up with a solution that suits everyone, but here it is. Clint’s going to leave Timely and everyone is better off.

“If you’re sure,” Sam says.

“Yeah, I am. Thanks for everything. Tell the others… Tell them thanks.”

“Want me to say anything to Bucky?” Sam asks, looking at him like he can see right through Clint’s skull and into his thoughts. Clint freezes and opens his mouth to… to do what? Make things worse.

“No, I’ve already said everything I need to,” he says with a shrug. “Bye Sam.”

Sam’s hug is warm and steady, and he pats Clint on the back as they pull apart.

“Bye Robin. If you’re ever in the area, come and visit, okay?”

“Sure,” Clint replies.

Natasha is finished with Barney, who looks a little like someone hit him in the head with a lawnmower, and she turns to Clint.

“Don’t be stupid,” she says to him firmly. “Watch your back.”

“That’s what Will’s for,” Clint says. She glares at him and repeats the words.

“Yes ma’am,” he says instead and grins as she rolls her eyes. He expects a handshake, or maybe a brief hug, but she leans in and kisses him on his cheek. “Bye Natasha,” he says as she pulls away. She doesn’t say goodbye back.

“Got everything?” Barney asks, looking at Clint with his three bags. Clint things about all the things he’s left behind upstairs, but nods. He’s got everything he needs, if not everything he wants. “Then let’s go.”

Barney’s got a car parked on the other side of town. It’s almost definitely stolen, but Clint doesn’t say anything. It’s back to the status quo after all. He doesn’t have the luxury of living legally any more.

“So, seems like you made a few friends,” Barney says as he starts the car. Clint doesn’t bother replying, just stares out the window. But Barney is not so easily deterred. “A deputy? Seriously Clint?”

He can feel his brother looking at him and he ignores it. Yeah, he made some friends. What else was he going to do? Without them he would have starved or been arrested.

“Don’t sulk,” Barney says. “I thought you’d grown out of this. You know not to get attached, little brother.”

“Barney,” Clint says. He’s not sure what he wants to say. That he didn’t want to be alone? That leaving sucks, but getting attached actually helped? Instead he just sighs and says. “Give me a minute, okay?”

“Sure, have a minute,” Barney allows. “You can feel sorry for yourself for one minute, but then we’re back to you not being a sadsack, alright? It’s the Barton Boys back together, baby brother. Nothing to feel sad about. Getting our show back on the road.”

“Yeah, cool,” Clint agrees.

They don’t drive very far out of town, maybe a couple of miles, before Barney pulls off the road.

“What’s going on?” Clint asks, sitting up.

“Gotta switch cars,” Barney says. “This one’s hot. I’ve got one hidden up the road a way. And with you making friends with the local sheriff’s department, better safe than sorry, right?”

“Right,” Clint agrees, grabbing his bags.

“Make sure you’ve got all your stuff with you,” Barney says. “We don’t need you sulking again. I remember when you left that doll behind when the carnival rolled out. You were twelve or something and you sulked for a week.”

“It was a limited edition action figure,” Clint says. He’d found that Captain Liberty figure on the ground after one of their shows, trampled into the dirt and missing its shield. It’s nose had been half scratched off too. He had managed to keep a hold of it for over a year before it had been lost and he’d been forced to abandon it.

He pats his bag, checking that he can still feel the bump that means its replacement is still with him, and lets that settle him down a bit. He’s still got that at least.

Barney laughs and shakes his head before turning to head into the woods, Clint takes a deep breath and a long look back down the road. He can't see Timely any more, it's hidden by the trees, but he looks anyway. It's stupid, but that's just who he is. He turns back and hurries to catch up to Barney, where he's disappearing between the tree trunks.

“Now, you’ve got to keep your head, right?” Barney says and Clint groans. They're really going to do this now. Clint screwed up, he knows that. “I know things got hairy before, but you can’t just go running off like that again, okay?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Clint asks. “They were going to kill me. Where are you going with this?”

“Maybe, next time, don’t take the money?” Barney suggests. “I mean, I get why you did it. It’s a lot of money, but that was a dumb idea. Jacques was out for your blood. He wanted your head on a stick.”

“I know,” Clint says, wincing.

“You’re lucky I managed to reason with him,” Barney says. “It took a while, but I managed to come to an arrangement.” Clint stares at him. No wonder he’s been so long, if he’s been reasoning with Jacques.

“You got him to leave us alone?” Clint asks. That doesn’t sound possible. He’d thought they’d be running forever. But if Barney managed to get him to agree to leave them alone...

“Not exactly, Clint.”

It's not Barney who says the words. The voice comes from directly ahead of them, and Clint looks up as – with a flair borne from years as a carnival showman – Jacques emerges from between the trees.

Clint takes a step back. He turns. But the way back is blocked, too. The whole fucking carnival is here.

“Barney?” he asks, looking over at his brother, who is biting his lip and scraping his hand over his hair. Barney just shrugs, a little helplessly.

“Sorry, little brother. Just give him back his money and everything goes back to the way it was.”

Clint can’t find the words. He just stares at Barney, mouth opening and closing, until some words come, if not the ones he wanted.

“Barney. What did you do?”


	10. The Carnival of Crime

Bucky remembers what he did before Clint came to Timely, back when his days weren’t filled up with keeping an eye on him. He knows that somehow the hours used to fill up with things that seemed necessary or at least diverting. But his cabin seems so empty now. There’s nothing to do out here. There are books, but he can’t get further than a couple of lines before his mind wanders. There’s nothing on the television that he can be bothered to watch, and the internet is… full of pointless drivel.

Steve’s at work, so there’s no point going to him. Sam would look at him like he’s an idiot and the guesthouse is a bad idea right now for a whole host of other reasons. Thor would be understanding, but honestly? Bucky just doesn’t feel like company.

Clint said no, asked him to stay away, so he’s staying away. It’s the least he can do. He hasn’t seen the man for a week, except the occasional awkward meeting when they run into each other on the street. They nod and give polite greetings, but nothing more. Even if Bucky’s instincts are telling him to throw himself at the guy, he’s stronger than that. Sometimes it looks like Clint’s going to say something, but he never does. He probably never will and Bucky is going to learn how to be okay with that, because that’s all he can do other than be a dick.

And he knows he has a life of his own. He’s been fitting into it just fine for the last week, mostly, but today something’s clawing at him from the inside and he’s going stir crazy.

He needs to _run_.

Running alone isn’t the same as running with pack. It’s not like the full moon where everything fades except the pumping of blood in his veins. He’s in full control of all of himself right now. He just needs to get out.

He strips, leaving his clothes where they fall. Who’s going to care? He lives alone. Then he stretches his legs out, testing the one that’s only just healed fully, but it’s good. The only sign it had ever been hurt is a thin white scar that has added itself to his collection. He shuts the door behind him, then he’s leaping.

The shift overtakes him midair, so it’s paws rather than feet that hit the dirt.

He loves the feel of running as always, and the relative simplicity of wolf-shape, where human concerns are still there, his thoughts are still his own, but they are more distant.

His pace eats up the ground as he gets to his top speed. Back when they were younger, he and Steve had used to time each other, and Bucky had been fast. He'd made it up to over 60 kilometres per hour. He's not sure he can manage that anymore, with his missing leg and the extra weight of muscle he's put on, but he's still pretty quick when he wants to be.

He’s heading towards the river when he gets the first hints of something wrong. The scent of strangers and of aggression, bitter and boiling. He changes direction in a split second, heading towards the vicious smell. Whatever this is, it has no place near the pack.

He’s following the scents, a dozen at least, when he comes across another, familiar. Achingly so.

Clint.

His wolf-shape registers it before he does, his back legs forcing out an extra burst of speed even as his human brain wonders what is going on.

He does not rush in when he comes across them. He’s not Steve, who leaps in without thinking, or Sam, who doesn’t need a good reason to join in. He’s still himself, and he needs to know what’s going on before he makes things worse. The scent of anger and aggression is stronger now, thick in the air, like over-sprayed perfume. But it’s not Clint’s scent that’s angry. Clint is… confused, sad and worried, and then, layered over that, the thin, sharp scent of fear. Bucky suppresses a growl.

He treads the outskirts of their group softly. He grew up in these woods, has run them since he was a pup. He has hunted and played the catching games that all pups play and he knows how to walk more quietly than a human can hear, concealed within the brush.

Clint stands within a circle of men, his hands upheld in surrender, Bucky has to grit his teeth against another growl at the sight of it.

“I don’t have the money,” Clint says.

The man next to him, who smells too similar not to be Clint’s family – the brother Clint has been waiting for so desperately – looks back at him.

“Clint, come on. You’ve got to give it back. That’s what I agreed.”

“You sold me out?” Clint asks.

“I negotiated. On your behalf. Just give back the money and all this is forgotten. They’ll take you back.”

Clint’s mouth clutches at words he can’t voice. Bucky wants to be standing by his side. Clint needs someone on his side, but he's surrounded by predators waiting eagerly for his blood. He can smell it on them.

“Look. You’ve got the money on you, right? Just hand it over,” says Clint's brother - Barney, Bucky remembers, growling internally.

There’s nothing in here,” says a guy who’s tearing through a bag covered in Clint’s scent. Bucky sees him take the action figure he'd bought and throw it out with all the other things. Anger flashes through him like lightning strikes.

“Where’s my money, baby Barton?” Another man asks. Bucky doesn’t need his wolf instincts to tell him this guy’s in charge. He stands like he expects everyone to centre themselves around him.

“I don’t have it,” Clint says.

“Then where is it?” The leader asks.

“No clue. I lost it,” Clint says. His jaw sticks out defiantly with a show of stubbornness that makes Bucky both proud of him and despairing. Why can no one he cares about ever just do the sensible thing?

“You lost over a million dollars?” the leader asks.

A million dollars? More than? Bucky’s mind reels at the idea. Who are these people? What is Clint even into? Bucky knows he shot a guy once, but he’d always assumed self defence, or something similar. This seems more than that.

But at the same time, he knows Clint doesn’t want this anymore, maybe he never did. Bucky knows better than anyone that you can’t always control what you do. Clint is a good man. 

“Yep,” Clint is saying, his tone irreverent. “Must have left it in my other pants. Wow, is this embarrassing.”

A man, taller even than Steve, steps forward, muscular in a way that indicates a lot of time and effort. He backhands Clint casually into the dirt.

Bucky scents the metallic flavour of blood on the air, and he can feel the rage rising up inside him, more powerful now. The outrage that these intruders would dare to touch his –

He cuts himself off, because Clint is not his mate. Potential, there might be, but whatever might have been had been cut off pretty effectively.

“Did you try looking down the back of the sofa?” Clint asks and Bucky feels a rush of warm affection for the idiot. Of course, at the same time he’s thinking ‘ _Just shut up. Keep your mouth shut.’_ But this is Clint being an ornery, unable to back down from a challenge, bastard, and Bucky loves him for it.

The body builder backhands Clint again, the smack of skin against skin ricocheting through the air, and Clint goes flying to the ground, sputtering and spitting. But he pulls himself back up.

Bucky needs to go and get Steve. But he can’t tar himself away, because he can’t leave Clint here, surrounded by enemies, betrayed by his own brother.

“You will talk eventually, Barton,” the leader says. “It’s a pity to lose you; you were a good act, even if you didn’t have the stomach for the job.”

“You wanted me to kill her!” Clint says, surging forwards. The scent of his anger mixes with the scent of his blood, bright and wild in Bucky’s nostrils. “She was a kid, Jacques.”

“Make him bleed,” the leader – Jacques – says dismissively. “Keep his mouth in working condition, though. He’s of no use if he can’t talk.”

“I can break his fingers,” the bodybuilder says, grinning viciously.

“Wait!” Clint’s lowlife of a brother cuts in, and Bucky feels like he could thank him for the first time, because he’s going to do something to stop this, like he should have from the beginning. “Don’t… I know where he might have left it.”

“Barney, shut up!” Clint hisses.

“There’s a town a couple of miles back. The place he was staying,” Barney continues and Bucky loses all faith in him again. Not enough to sell his own brother out, but now he’s selling out the pack, too.

“Barney. _Shut up!_ ”

“I’m keeping your dumb ass alive, little brother,” Barney says. “I can’t remember what it was called – Timiny or Timmerly, some nowhere place – but he was staying at the guesthouse there. It’s got a picture of a moon on the sign. He might have left the money there.”

“Barney,” Clint says wearily. “You’re a dirtbag. Have I told you that recently?”

“Well it seems baby Barton’s a bit worried. Maybe your brother's guessed your little game. You thought you could hide it away and come back later, huh?" Jacques chuckles. "Buck!”

For a second, Bucky thinks Jacques is calling to him, but another man steps forwards, holding a bow similar to the one Bucky’s seen Clint holding before. “Take Thomas and Jenny. Go have a look in the town. Ask around, see if you can find out where my money is.” Two others peel off from the main crowd.

The three of them turn towards the road and Bucky knows he should follow them, over take them, warn Steve. But Jacques is speaking again.

“Marcus. We don’t really need Mr Barton’s mouth anymore, thanks to his brother.”

The bodybuilder’s starting to move in on Clint and there’s an expression of unholy glee on his face.

Bucky’s seen that look before, baying from around the cages, desperate for blood to be spilled, rejoicing in the crack of a broken neck.

Steve can look after the pack, Bucky’s got to look after Clint. It sure as hell doesn’t seem like anyone else is going to.

As the bodybuilder pulls back one meaty arm, Bucky can feel the rage burning, crashing over him, he can't hold it back anymore, and the world turns red as he leaps.

His claws sink into flesh and there is the blooming scent of fresh blood as he tears them out again. The air is full of shouting and his snarls as confusion reigns.

“Oh fuck!” he hears Clint shout. “Don’t hurt him! He’s just trying to protect me, leave him alone.”

There is the sound of things colliding, but Bucky is too busy to pay attention. The other members of the gang are getting over their confusion and they outnumber him. He throws himself into the fight in earnest, hoping that Clint has the wherewithal to run away while he has the chance, but knowing that he won’t.

“Fucking thing’s a cripple,” one of them says, and Bucky takes a satisfying bite out of their leg. The howl of pain is worth the taste in his mouth.

“Hold him still!” A voice cries out, and arms are reaching for him from all sides. Clint is still yelling to leave him alone. The hands pull and tug and Bucky is caught. Not for long, but long enough. There is the sound of a shot and a sharp pain hit his side.

He tears his way free, but already the heaviness is coming over his limbs and he can feel himself lose his grasp on his wolf-shape as he collapses with his claws, then fingers, scratching into the dirt, reaching towards Clint.

*

Clint wakes up in a cage, tied to the bars. He recognises it as the one that had, at one point, housed the tigers. He wonders what Meejin did with them. Looking out through the bars, he sees the rest of the usual camp, with everyone's caravans gathered round. There are a couple of them standing guard, but everyone else sees to be on the other side of the camp, in some massive debate. Clint can't see Barney.

Bucky is opposite him, tied to the bars, just like Clint is, staring at him as he comes round. Clint just gapes at him.

“Fuck.” It was pretty much the only word Clint could think of. His mind was exactly in gear. “You’re a wolf... you’re the wolf. You’re a werewolf.”

Bucky shrugs. It does interesting things to the muscles of his bare chest, which Clint is trying not to think about, because there are still gashes across his skin, leaking blood in slow droplets. Clint just stares at all of him instead. He feels stupid, but at the same time – there was no way he could have known. Who thinks ‘werewolf’? Sure, he'd considered evil cultists, but werewolves?

Well, there was that way that the wolf – Bucky – always seemed to understand what he was saying. And the look on Bucky’s face that time when Clint talked about the wolf. And the strangely large dogs that wandered around the town. And the howling from the forest. And the look on Steve’s face when he came across Clint petting the wolf – Bucky. Oh shit.

“I stroked you!” he says. That sounds bad. “I mean, you were a wolf, but I... oh god. I rubbed your stomach.”

Bucky actually flushes at that.

“Sorry,” he says. “Tried ta keep away from you after that.”

Oh, right, yes. That had been when the wolf had gone from overgrown puppy to aloof stalker.

“It wasn’t fair on you,” Bucky mutters. “Consent and all that. I just...” he huffs out a breath and looks towards the door. “But I really don't think I was the only one keeping secrets. You wanna talk about yours while we’re just sitting here?”

Clint really, really doesn’t. Gotta say, that’s a conversation that he’d rather dance on broken glass than have, but Bucky’s a werewolf and they’re locked up and probably gonna die, so it’s probably a conversation that’s overdue.

“I’m on the run from a criminal organisation that fronts as a carnival. After they tried to get me to kill a teenage girl and I let her go instead, I stole a million dollars from them and left them to get caught by the feds - but that obviously didn't happen - and now they wanna kill me,” he shrugs. “Standard backstory, y’know.”

“You have a million dollars?” Bucky asks. Clint makes a face.

“... uh... not anymore?” he says.

“Please don’t tell me you spent it all,” Bucky tells him. “Really don’t think that’s gonna go down well with the guys out there.”

“Well you could just wolf out and tear their throats out,” Clint suggests. He sees Bucky’s face go a bit paler.

“Not an option,” Bucky tells him. “What did you do with the money?”

“Uh...” Clint wants to do something with his hands, he wants to fidget, because he’s never been good at sitting still, and, quite frankly, he wants to give Bucky something to look at other than his face. He glances around to check that their guards are far enough away. He doesn't want them overhearing this. “I lost it,” he says, knowing Bucky will recognise the lie. Which is probably a werewolf thing, now he thinks about it. Can they smell lying? What does lying smell like?"

“Yeah,” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yep.” Clint says

“You...?” Bucky looks at the guards and cuts himself off, he’s staring at Clint’s face again. “Really?”

"Yeah. Believe me I know,” Clint says. “I checked, okay. Must have picked up the wrong bag at some point, or left it on a bus.” He wills Bucky to understand, and it seems like he does, because his eyes widen. Clint knows he’s flushing a bit, because it was pretty stupid. But Wanda and Pietro had needed it. Clint had known what it was like to be in their place, and the carnival hadn’t turned out to be the great idea they all thought it was, so maybe he’d wanted Wanda and Pietro to get a better start, even if the boy had been a complete asshole

“You are something else, Pev... or, I guess it’s Barton, right? That’s what they were calling you – Baby Barton.” Clint flushes with embarrassment again.

“I’ve got an older brother,” he says, defensively, "and I was a lot... smaller, when we first ended up here.”

“How old were you?” Bucky asks.

“Eight,” Clint says. Bucky mutters something under his breath that Clint can’t make out. “I’m sorry I got you into this. I know you must hate my guts.”

“I let you stroke me,” Bucky says after a moment. Clint stares at him. “I don’t... I don’t hate you.”

“I turned you down. I told you to leave me alone,” Clint says after a moment. “You... I mean, it’s not that I don’t get it – I was kind of a dick.”

Bucky glares at him, which just goes to demonstrate Clint’s point more clearly, even if it does also lead Clint’s mind right back round to how damn hot it makes Bucky look.

“I don't hate you,” Bucky says. "Not sure I ever did. I just... You fixed up the guesthouse. You rescued a wolf in the woods when it could have bitten your arm off any second. You gave your lunch to some kids who had nothing."

“Ye-es,” Clint agrees, because that’s true. But mostly it just goes to show how pathetic Clint is, and how much he’s been trying to manipulate them all to stay in their good graces.

“You’re a good guy,” Bucky says, with quiet conviction that Clint does not deserve.

“I’m wanted for murder,” Clint says slowly. He’s not sure that’s come up yet, it probably should. Bucky’s eyebrows shot up.

“Did you do it?” he asks. Not the question Clint was expecting. He looks at Bucky, Bucky looks back, steady and sure.

“No... but I might have. Sometimes I almost did. If I thought I had to,” Clint says. He knows his voice is small and weak.

“You don’t think so anymore.”

Clint thinks back to that glimpse he’d had, when Jacques appeared, of Barney’s face.

“I don’t know,” he says, but he knows he could do it. He knows, even if Barney isn’t what he thought, even if he isn’t gonna have Clint’s back, Clint’s never gonna let anyone kill Barney. They’re family. That’s what it means. Maybe they don't have it quite right, like Wanda and Pietro do, but they're still brothers.

Bucky hums and nods. He looks like he understands what Clint’s saying, not like he’s trying to look understanding, but like he actually understands.

“So how are we getting out of here?” Bucky asks, looking around at the bars.

“Can you...” Clint screws up his face in his best impression of wolf fangs. He thinks that maybe he looks a bit like one of the vampires from Buffy, but – judging by Bucky’s expression – he might just look ridiculous.

“I’d prefer not to,” Bucky says, his voice steady and tight in a way that Clint is overly familiar with. But he’s not good at keeping his mouth shut.

“You didn’t seem to have a problem earlier,” Clint points out.

“I didn’t exactly...” Bucky looks like he wants to smash something. Clint is okay with that, just as long as it’s the bars on this cage and not Clint’s face. “That wasn’t intentional.”

“You can’t control it?” Clint asks, thinking about all the times he’s seen Bucky as a wolf and all the times he’s seen him as a human. He can’t see any indication that it wasn’t voluntary. “I thought that was like the full moon or something.”

“It is,” Bucky agrees, “but it’s also... there are triggers,” he says. “Mostly we can control it. But I...” He pauses. “I’m not most werewolves.”

Clint blinks and can’t quite help himself from chuckling, biting his lips in a futile attempt to smother his laughter. Bucky glares at him.

“It’s not you... well... it is you,” Clint says, his shoulders shaking. “I just... I feel like I’m in one of those teen werewolf shows or films: _You’re not like other werewolves_.” He dissolves into laughter again.

He risks a look at Bucky as his giggles die down, but Bucky doesn’t look angry, he’s actually smirking a bit.

“Don’t even think about calling me Jacob,” Bucky says.

“So can you control it, or not?” Clint asks.

“I thought I could,” Bucky tells him. “But... Natasha’s right. I’m losing my control. You...”

“I piss you off that much?” Clint asks. Bucky looks up at him. “I know I’d pretty much win the Nobel prize for being too fucking irritating. It’s okay. You’re hardly the first.” Look at Barney, apparently. And their dad, way back when. Clint pisses off everyone. He’s got a smart mouth and he doesn’t keep it shut when he should. It’s hardly Bucky’s fault that he wants to rip Clint’s throat out.

“You don’t piss me off,” Bucky snaps at him. Clint just looks back, smiling a little at the contradiction, until Bucky lets out an exasperated sigh. “You do... just... not like that. I... You’re an idiot half the time, and you’re way too trusting. But you’re not... that’s not why you make me lose control.”

“Right, so it’s just my animal magnetism and you’re overcome with lust,” Clint jokes.

At least – it was supposed to be a joke. There’s a look in Bucky’s eyes as Clint catches his gaze. A look that he saw once in the wolf’s eyes – in Bucky’s wolf eyes – before, when he was caught in a trap and clearly thought Clint was going to kill him. He looks caught, almost scared, his eyes wide, his mouth parted and slightly open. The look is gone in an instant, squashed down to Bucky’s usual expression of barely acceptable murder eyes, but still, it was there.

“Holy shit,” Clint says. The idea of it jolts through him. He knows Bucky asked him out, knows that he came on really strong the other day, but he didn't think it was that strong, didn't think anyone would ever feel that strongly about him. “But... no... “

“Shut up, Barton.”

“You ran off,” Clint says. “At the party, you were right there, all over me, and - oh, it was a full moon, oh my god. How did I not notice that? - then Sam and Natasha come along and it was like you woke up and suddenly you’re out of there quicker than a... a... a really quick thing.” His brains leave him for a moment. “Is this like a weird wolf thing. Like you’re attracted to me as a wolf? Because I’m not sure I’m into that. I mean, I’ve got nothing against furries. It’s all cool as long as it’s safe, sane and consensual, y’know. But I don’t think... like actual bestiality. Not really for me. Or did you just not know it was me, like were you just horny because it was the full moon and-”

“Clint!” Bucky snaps again. “I knew it was you. The whole time, I knew it was you. I’m a werewolf, it was the full moon. I’ve got a great sense of smell anyway, but it’s even better at the full moon. I knew it was you.”

Clint cocks his head, looking at Bucky, who’s sagging a bit now, looking almost ashamed of himself, which yeah – running out on someone with no explanation when you’ve just been molesting them very enthusiastically: rude. And he’s still got to work out whether Bucky _smelling him_ is creepy or not. He’s going to go with not, because that way madness lies.

“Then why did you run off after you got less... crazy?” Clint says.

“Because it wasn’t safe, and it definitely wasn’t sane,” Bucky says, sagging even more. “I was too close to transforming. I wasn’t in control. My claws were out.”

“Oh...” Clint says. That’s... well, it should probably be terrifying. He was apparently close to dying and he didn’t even know it. But his sense of self preservation is shit, it seems, because really all he feels is stupidly turned on. The fact that he’s got that sort of power... but no, it was the full moon. Everyone at that party had been three kinds of out of it before he’d even arrived, and...

“Holy shit. Is everyone in town a werewolf?” he asks. Because he remembers the way Bucky had said that Steve and Tony were fucking, the way Sam and Natasha had looked pretty fucking dishevelled. “Holy fuck. Everyone’s a werewolf. What the fuck? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?”

The guards turn to look round and Clint glares at them. Bucky gives him an unimpressed look.

“I turn into a wolf right in front of your eyes and you shrug it off, but suddenly other people are werewolves too and you’re surprised?” he asks.

“Hey, I freaked out for you, too...” Clint says. “ But you were unconscious at the time. It’s just you’re... you know, all tough, mysterious loner. If anyone’s going to be a secret werewolf, it’s you. Everyone else though. They’re...”

“Normal?” Bucky suggests, a little savagely.

“That’s not what I meant,” Clint says quickly. Bucky eyes him.

“Might as well – it’s true,” Bucky says.

“You’re normal... for you.” Clint’s aware that it comes out a little weakly, and he can’t think of any other way to explain what he means. Words have failed him, again. He hates it when that happens. “They’re all normal for them. It’s just. They’re...”

“I’m not normal, Clint,” Bucky tells him. “I... There’s a reason I can’t control myself properly.” He rolls his left shoulder, looking down at where his arm used to be. “You didn’t ask, about my arm.”

“Life sucks,” Clint tells him with a shrug. “Most people don’t like to be reminded about the suckiest parts.” Bucky smiles weakly at him.

“I was... There are people out there who hunt werewolves.”

“You don’t have to tell me this,” Clint assures him. “It’s none of my business.”

“I want you to know why... I owe you an explanation,” Bucky rolls his shoulder again. “Some of them just want us dead. Others... they don’t kill us when they catch us. There’s an underground system." He pauses and draws in a deep breath. "You ever been to a dog fight?”

“No,” Clint says. The idea of them makes his teeth grind together. Then his brain picks up the thread of the conversation. “Shit... they made you...?”

“Shot me up with drugs to make me berserk, threw me into a cage with another shifter hopped up on drugs. We tore each other apart.”

Clint doesn’t have words to address this. He wants to ask if Bucky’s OK, but he knows the answer. He wants to tell Bucky that he’s sorry, but that wouldn’t help. He wants to shoot those assholes in the stomach with arrows, so they’ll die slow. He voices the last thought. Bucky actually grins a bit at that, savage and a bit wild, and Clint can see the wolf under his skin.

“The pack took care of them,” Bucky says. “Steve... he took over the pack, found me, got me out. It wasn’t pretty.”

“Good,” Clint says. He feels like maybe there’s a wolf under his skin too, trying to get out. The level of savagery he’s feeling is ugly, broken a bit.

He hadn’t realised that Bucky had made it that far under his skin that Clint would consider him one of _his_. Like it or not, Bucky’s one of his now. Clint’s not going to let anything happen to him if he can help it. Maybe he’s an idiot to think that – even if Bucky wanted his protection – he’d be able to do anything to help a fucking werewolf. But he’s going to try. That’s all you can do, right. Just keep trying, and keep the things you care about as safe as you can.

There's movement outside the cage and the carnival folk are heading back towards them. Jacques is talking to Meejin, who is holding out some sort of box. Clint can’t see what’s in it, but whatever it is, it seems important.

After a moment, a smile spreads across Jacques’ face. Clint looks for Barney automatically, but Barney just looks pale and tired. He looks back at Clint and Clint has the feeling that his brother has given up on him.

“Interesting company you’ve been keeping, Clint,” Jacques says, stepping over towards the cage. “I’d never seen one before, but it so happens that Meejin has. He waves her forwards and she looks at Clint. “Apparently she’s got something that might help us out. You see, your friend here, he might be missed. But he knows far too much for us to just let him go. You know how that works, Clint. That’s why we’re here in the first place, isn’t it?”

“Are you planning on getting to the point any time soon?” Clint asks, feigning a yawn. “I thought the carnival was supposed to be entertaining, but I guess without me, you’re just a bunch of tired also-rans.”

“Clint,” Bucky says through gritted teeth. “Maybe don’t insult the man who’s planning to kill you?” he suggests. Clint rolls his eyes. If you’re not allowed to insult people who are planning to kill you, who are you allowed to insult?

“The point,” Jacques laughs, like Clint’s just told the funniest jokes. Meejin smiles beside him too. It’s a shame, Clint always liked Meejin, but apparently she’s just as screwed in the head as the rest of them. How did Clint never see this?  “Meejin, perhaps you’d like to show him the point.”

Meejin turns the little black box around and opens it up.

Resting in a foam backing is a syringe and a vial of silvery liquid. Clint looks at it and then frowns.

“Am I supposed to know what that is?” he asks.

“No,” Meejin says. “But your friend does.”

Clint turns to Bucky, who is frozen, eyes round in fear. He’s never seen Bucky look like that before, never thought he could look that terrified.

“That’s it,” Bucky says. “That’s what they gave me. Where did you get that? Are you Hydra? Are you involved.”

“I have friends in useful places,” Meejin says with a shrug.

“Grab the animal,” Jacques says, nodding to some of his lackeys. He turns back to Clint.

"The tragic death of one of our performers, ripped apart by a wild animal that we had to put down," he says. "Wherever you put the money, Clint, we will find it. But you will not be here to see it."

*

They drag Bucky out of the cage to dose him. He fights, but they know what he’s capable of now and he’s still tied up, tight enough that even shifting wouldn't slip the bonds.

He knows they won’t last very long when he’s juiced up. Nothing lasts long then. Bucky had bitten his own arm off – ripped it off with his own teeth. Sometimes, on his bad nights, he can still taste his own blood in his mouth.

He still fights, what else is he going to do? But it’s no use. The woman gets the syringe out of the case starts to fill it with the drugs. Bucky can smell it from here. That same smell.

Never again, he’d said. Steve had promised him: never again, had told him that every last vial had been destroyed. But it looks like they’re both going to be turned into liars, because the strongman’s holding him still and the woman’s pumping the air out of the syringe.

Clint’s shouting futile insults and threats at them. Shouting to Bucky that it’s going to be alright.

It’s going to be alright.

But then he fades away. It all fades away: the taunts of the other carnival folk, Clint’s shouting, everything. All that’s left is the glint of sunlight on a needle and the roar of Bucky’s blood in his veins, merging into the roar of the crowd.

He can remember smells more clearly than anything else. Faces have merged into one, but he can remember their scents. All layered over the thick scent of blood.

As he ripped out their throats.

And it’s going to happen again. They’re going to shove him back into that cage and he’s going to become the monster again. The one he always feels lurking under his mind, under his skin. The beast that is only rage and pain and hatred.

And Clint, still tied up, with no idea; Clint who always sees his wolf-shape as tame, friendly; who stroked his head and fed him scraps of food; and who talks to him like he’s a person even though he never knew the truth.

Clint who smells of earnestness, determination and bravado under the bitter tinge of fear and doubt that clouds him. The fear and doubt that _these people_ caused. Clint who smells like home and mate.

Clint is going to die. And Bucky’s going to be the bullet that kills him.

As they stab the needle into his arm, he howls.

It’s a true howl, though he knows he’s too far away for the pack to hear. But he howls anyway. Because someone has to stop him and Steve’s the only one who can.

It burns in his veins and the pack hold turns to a howl of agony as he feels it tearing through him. The old familiar feeling as his brain is consumed.

He can feel the hands dragging his contorted form back to the cage, throwing him in again. He hears the metal of the key turning in the lock, trapping him into his nightmare.

Then the pounding thud of his hart overtakes all the other sounds as it speeds up and speeds up. Until it’s going so fast he thinks it might explode from it all.

The burning rises.

His teeth extend, one by one, pushing savagely through his gums.

Claws scrabble at the ground.

His arm shifts into a leg, his legs rearrange themselves, the force of the change ripping the bonds open.

The rage hits him.

And he is consumed.

*

The wolf smells fear. Thick in its nostrils. It smells the rotten scent of scorn.

Another cage. Another crowd, It has not missed this.

It snarls at the faces it sees, runs at the bars. Hurls itself at them, thrusting its claws between the metal bars. To tear, to rend, to make blood throw.

Anger comes from the crowd, rolling off them in waves. A stick is thrust through the bars at it and pain attacks its side, burning through it.

The pain makes its own rage rise higher. It needs to kill, to tear apart those who have hurt it. Everything in its path. It will…

It pauses. There is another scent. Sadness, fear, tangled up with despair. Anger as well, stronger than the others.

It turns.

There are no bars between it and this new scent. The wolf lowers its head, down low over its front foot, and it growls again.

Usually the ones they put in the cage with it are bigger, stronger. This one has no teeth or claws. It will be easy to kill. Its blood will taste good.

The wolf advances slowly. It can smell the bloodlust from the watchers growing higher as their shouts grow louder, baying for blood. Their desires coil inside the wolf as well.

The prey does not move back or try to defend itself. It stands, waiting. It is moving its mouth, speaking words, but the wolf is beyond words now. Words are meaningless. It communicates in scent and violence.

The wolf leaps.

*

Clint has no idea what they’re doing to Bucky. They drag him out of the cage, kicking and screaming, and plunge some drug into his neck and he howls.

The sound resonates inside Clint’s skull, calling to something inside him that he didn’t even know was there, an urge to move, to run, to protect.

Then they throw Bucky back in, and he’s changing and screaming before Clint’s eyes. And Clint, still tied up, can do nothing to help him.

“What did you _do_ to him?” Clint shouts. “Barney? What? It’s killing him!”

He finds Barney’s face outside the cage, but his brother won’t look him in the eye.

“Barney, please. You’ve got to help him. Look at him!”

Bucky’s change is not smooth. It comes in fits and starts. His body contorts in sickening unreal ways as the bones seem to change size one at a time, first this rib, then another, one armbone, the opposite foot. Fur sprouts in tufts and Bucky’s eyes are wide with terror. “Help him,” Clint pleads again. He’s not above begging for this. He will take what they do to him, but Bucky has done nothing wrong other than save Clint’s life. Clint’s worthless excuse for a life. Fuck. He was trying to be better, trying to avoid the killing, but it’s all just led him back here, to this.

He can’t even run away properly.

“You should be more worried about yourself,” Jacques says. “The drug we injected him with is used in the fighting pits. Gives them a good show. It dulls the human brain and induces a beserker state in the beast left behind. Once the change is complete, he will rip you limb from limb. Then, with no one else within reach, he’ll tear himself to pieces too.”

“And what? This is how you get off?” Clint asks. “Never took you for a furry. Though I guess the snuff makes sense.”

“Never took you for a furry either,” Jacques asks.

“He do you doggy style, Barton?” a voice calls. Clint doesn’t even bother to work out who it is. “Did you used to get off to the lions?” asks another, and there’s a round of jeering.

“You’re a sick fuck, Jacques,” Clint says.

“Well, if you will lie down with beasts, Hawkeye.”

Barney’s moved around, so he’s on the side of the cage near Clint. For one, hopeful second, Clint thinks he’s going to slip him a knife or the bow that’s over his shoulder. But no. Once again, Barney disappoints. It’s growing to be a habit.

“I’m sorry, little brother. I tried.”

“Fuck you,” Clint says. Barney winces. “You should have tried harder. I would _never_ have let them get you.”

“You always valued sentiment too much,” Barney says. “You should have been tougher.”

“ _I_ should have been tougher? _I_ should have been tougher?” Clint ask. “Next time you look in the mirror, tell yourself that shit. At least then it’ll be true.”

There’s a point when Bucky’s screaming turns into a full howl of anguish and rage that cuts down Clint’s spine, making his whole body shiver. Reluctantly, he turns back towards where Bucky had been lying.

“I can’t watch this,” Barney says, and Clint knows he’s walking away.

“Coward!” Clint calls after him. The sting of betrayal throbs in his chest, but he doesn’t have time to think about that now. He is staring at the wolf, and the wolf is staring back.

Clint has spent a lot of time in the last couple of months with Bucky like this. Not that he knew it was Bucky at the time, but it’s got to count for something right. Something must make it past that drug induced frenzy. And in that time, Clint has always felt that he and the wolf have had an understanding. Now he knows that it was Bucky all along, that makes sense. The intelligence in the wolf’s eyes had been Bucky looking out.

There is no Bucky looking out from behind these eyes.

Clint has never appreciated how many teeth can fit in a wolf’s mouth before. They seem never ending as the wolf curls back its lips in a snarl that echoes through Clint’s rib cage.

He struggles to his feet. It’s difficult with his hands so tightly tied behind him.

“Hi Bucky,” he says. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Another snarl. “I know you don’t remember who I am right now, but – just – “ the wolf begins to pace towards him. Clint does not move. “I’m the guy who helped you out of the bear trap, remember? No?”

“He can’t understand you, kid,” a voice calls. Clint ignores it.

“I know you find me irritating, but honestly I thought we’d moved past the part where you wanted to kill me. Thought you kind of liked me these days. You just said...”

Another snarl.

The jeers from around the outside are rising into a roar of noise. They think they’re putting him off, but they raised Clint to play to an audience, to let the ebb and flow of the crowd raise him up, make him more than just Clint Barton with a stick and a string, make him Hawkeye, the world’s greatest marksman.

They made him a weapon. Let’s see how they like it when he acts like one.

This is his circus ring.

“See him achieve the impossible,” he mutters under his breath, settling his feet in position so he is balanced, drawing in a deep breath to focus on. “See him fly through the air.” The wolf snarls again, its tail down low as it watches him with silvery moonstone eyes. He stands, holds his ground. If there’s one thing archery teaches you, it’s to wait. The perfect shot is coming.

The wolf leaps and Clint drops.

He’s not a gymnast, but adrenaline and determination let him squeeze his body through the hoop of his arms so his hands are in front of him. The wolf jumps right over his head, apparently not expecting its prey to drop like a stone. Clint rolls to his feet, assuming a fighting stance, because he will leave this world kicking and screaming.

“This daring young archer’s unstoppable,” he says, a bit louder now, smiling slightly. So many years of hearing the patter, punctuated by the oohs and the ahs of the audience have left the words seared into his brain. “Get ready to marvel and stare!” He can feel the rush of the ring, or maybe it’s the adrenaline kicking in because of the mortal peril. Either way, it’s working.

The wolf seems put off by his sudden dodging, it draws back a step before lunging again, and Clint flips out of the way, like an acrobatic toreador. Bucky the wolf has to be almost as big as a bull anyway.

“As he makes every shot,” Clint says as he lands lightly on his feet. “Hits a pinpoint, a dot!”

They pace around each other in a circle, the wolf cocking its head to one side and sniffing the air. Clint’s tactics must be putting it off, because it doesn’t seem so angry now.

“Shooting blind, on one leg,” he continues, stepping carefully, shifting his weight as smoothly as he can. The wolf darts forward a bit, a feint, but Clint rocks backwards anyway. He hears a disgruntled huff from the wolf. That sounds… more like Bucky. Maybe the stuff they shot him up with doesn’t last long. Clint can hope.

He darts forwards a couple of steps of his own and the wolf pulls back, watching him carefully.

“Make some noise now, I beg,” he says, though his tone is more thoughtful.

The wolf jumps again, hits Clint, who rolls with it, letting the momentum carry them over.

“For the incredible,” he says as he rolls to his feet and the wolf jumps away. One of its claws caught on his arm and there’s a line of blood dripping down his bicep, but it’s not deep. The crowd still clamours for more, though.

“–the unstoppable–”

The wolf lunges.

“–the unbeatable–”

Clint dodges

“–the impossible–”

A swipe.

“–the fearless–”

Clint twists away.

“–high-flying–“

A flash of teeth.

“–and death-defying–“

Clint rolls away again and they look at each other, starting to prowl around each other in circles again. It’s like a dance more than a fight, Clint thinks, and he can’t shake the feeling that the wolf isn’t angry any more. Isn’t trying to hurt him.

“Here for your delight,” he says, louder now, so the crowd outside the bars can hear him. “To astound you tonight.” The wolf steps, muscles coiled with unreleased movement, rippling beneath the thick fur. “The one–“ Clint announces, “–the only,”

He can see the leap before it happens, in the twitch of Bucky’s tail, but he doesn’t move out of the way. He is hanging in a moment, waiting for the exact right time to move, like jumping from trapeze to trapeze.

Bucky flies at him, huge fangs, bright eyes, murder wrapped up in black fur.

Clint waits, he waits, then twists, at the last possible second, lifting his arms, still bound, to create a hoop for the wolf to leap into. If Bucky sees it coming, it’s too late, Clint’s arms are around his neck.

“The Amazing Hawkeye,” he says, right into Bucky’s ear, with as much aplomb as he can muster on the back of a 200lb werewolf with 3 legs.

Oh… shit.

Now he’s on the back of a 200lb werewolf with three legs. What does he do now?

Bucky takes it out of his hands though, runs a few steps, charging down the cage, before stopping suddenly, and Clint goes flying over his head.

As he flips over, he has enough time to think ‘this is going to hurt’ before it does, indeed, hurt.

He lands on his back, and it’s only years of practice at falling that mean he doesn’t break anything vitally important.

The air is forced from his lungs, however, and he wheezes in pain. He opens his eyes – which apparently he had closed at some point while being dragged around by a werewolf – and finds himself staring up at the wolf’s upside down face, his hands over his head. Silver eyes stare down at him.

“Hi,” Clint says. “Not so much into piggyback rides, huh?”

The wolf sniffs.

And sniffs again.

This is it. It can smell the blood. Clint’s done for. He’s out of ideas. A long snout descends, dips into the crook of his neck, fur tickling the sensitive skin there.

He closes his eyes and waits for the pain of teeth tearing out his throat.

The pain doesn’t come.

There’s the wet touch of a lupine nose against his skin, another rough tickle of fur that makes his body twitch, and then…

“Did you just lick me?” he asks. His mouth ends up full of fur. The wolf whines and – yep, it licks him again.

“Now that I know you’re a human, this feels super kinky,” Clint says into Bucky’s furry throat. He earns another whine.

“What’s going on?” he hears from outside the cage. “Isn’t there supposed to be more blood than that?”

Clint lets out a little, hiccupping giggle, then another. Then he slips into a full-grown laugh. He laughs. His stomach’s aching, but he laughs. The situation is so very bizarre.

He brings his hands up, still bound together, and sinks them into Bucky’s fur, reaching his fingers right in to scratch, and receives a warm rumble in response.

“Hey Bucky,” Clint says, smiling in relief. “Good to see you.” The wolf whines. “Don’t suppose you can get me out of this rope?” The wolf continues burying his face in Clint’s neck, rubbing itself against his skin. “Or we can do more of that,” Clint says. “Not saying I wouldn’t prefer it if you were human before we got to the necking, but anything that doesn’t involve you tearing me limb from limb is good right now.”

“It must have worn off!” Duquesne calls from outside. “Marcus, get in there!”

Aw, Clint had almost forgotten about the audience.

“With that thing?” Marcus calls back. “No fucking way.”

“You can take the damn cattle prod,” Jacques says. “Use it on both of them. We’re going to have to kill them both the hard way anyway.”

“I’m not going in there on my own,” Marcus says. “It’s a fucking monster.”

“Look at that,” Duquesne answers. “It’s licking him. It’s a pathetic puppy right now. We must have got a dud dose. Now get in there and tie it back up while it’s still docile.”

Clint doesn’t hear anything else, but a few seconds later, Bucky stiffens and the licking stops. Slowly, he raises his head and growls. It’s so low that Clint can’t hear it, but he can feel it thrumming in Bucky’s throat.

Bucky shifts, keeping his eyes towards the entrance to the cave while he walks his body round until it’s directly over Clint’s, crouched low so there’s barely any room between them. He’s like a thick, fur blanket, with a little added murder thrown in for good measure. He growls again.

“Shit,” Marcus yells. “It’s looking at me, Jacques.”

“Jab it with the cattle prod.”

“Oh, fuck no,” Clint says. He tilts his head to look and sure enough, he sees the cattle prod coming forward.

He moves, pulling himself upright and twisting so that he and Bucky roll.

Clint’s had bad electric shocks before, but this whites out his mind for a second, his entire body juddering with it. Fuck, that was a bad idea.

*

The wolf knows two things. The human above him smells of mate, and the other human, the one with the stick, just hurt him.

Things are very simple for the wolf. It boils down to one word.

_Protect_.

Everything else is blood.

*

Bucky-wolf is a streak of black destruction and he hurls Marcus through the cage door and follows after him.

A two hundred pound wolf, doing its best to tear off your face, is a pretty good distraction and no one’s even looking at him as Clint emerges from the cage, shaky on his feet from the electric shock and staggers over to where his bow bag is lying. If he can get up one of the trees, he can help. He cuts the ropes off with the sharp edge of an arrow head and gets his hands free.

As soon as his bow is in his hand, the churning in his stomach and the storm in his mind calm down. He straps on his quiver and looks around. Bucky is outnumbered, but holding his own for now. Whatever they shot him up with, it seems to have given him three times the aggression he had shown before, unless he's looking at Clint, which is a miracle Clint is not going to question right now.

But something on the far side of the camp catches his eye, some movement as someone tries to take advantage of Bucky’s preoccupation to escape… or not. Clint starts running. He knows it's Barney from the way he runs. He's seen that run too many times, even if he can't see his brother's face.

Barney has his own bow out too, which is going to make this more difficult. Clint watches him scale a tree to set up a perch, and nock an arrow. Clint can see exactly what he’s aiming at.

“Barney, no,” Clint says. Barney looks down and doesn’t seem surprised to see him there, then lines up his shot again.

“Clint, the thing’s a monster. It almost killed you.”

“So did you,” Clint points out. In the camp, Bucky-wolf is still on his feet, but that won’t be true if Barney looses that arrow. He might not be as good as Clint, but he’s a damn good shot and Clint doesn’t think Bucky’s got the self-preservation instincts to dodge right now.

“I was trying to save your life,” Barney says.

“You sold me out.”

“If you’d just given them the money,” Barney says.

“I wasn’t lying. I really don’t have it anymore,” Clint tells him. “I gave it away.

“You gave away a million dollars? To who?”

“To someone who needed it more than me.”

“You and your bleeding fucking heart,” Barney grumbles. “Look, you should run. I’ll put the beast down and tell ‘em you’re gone. Keep running. Try leaving the country.”

“I don’t think so, Barney,” Clint’s heart feels as heavy as lead as he pulls an arrow from his quiver and nocks it. “I’m not going to let you hurt him, Barney.”

“What?” Barney turns and sees the arrow pointing right at him. “Don’t be an idiot, Clint. He’s a fucking werewolf.”

“Seems like.”

“Have you seen what he’s doing out there?”

“What they wanted him to do to me,” Clint says. “What you were going to let them do to me. They did this to themselves.” He can’t lie and say he wants this. But the battle lines were drawn and Clint knows which side he’s on. Now if he could only convince Barney to come over.

“I thought you wanted to be a good guy now.”

“I never said that. I just didn’t want to kill an innocent kid because she saw too much. It’s not like I’m putting on a white hat. Put down the bow, Barney. I will shoot you.”

“No,” Barney says. “You won’t. I know you, Clint. I’m your brother. You’d never hurt me.”

“Funny thing,” Clint says as he sees the fractional tensing of Barney’s shoulder that means he's about to shoot. “I used to say the same thing about you.” He lets his arrow fly.

There is a twang and a yell as Barney overbalances and a crash as he falls into the undergrowth, the string of his bow neatly severed, the arrow clattering helplessly to the ground beside him. Clint stands over him, looking down.

“I guess you really do know best.”

He turns back to the fight, raising his bow, another arrow snug against the string, when the world is filled with howling.

The sounds echo around them, unearthly, bloodthirsty, and Clint’s mouth goes dry. He managed to survive Bucky, but he’s not sure he can cope with an army.

There is a moment of utter stillness as the howls linger in the air, the only movement is Bucky, in the centre of the carnival camp, tearing at someone with his claws.

Then, it’s as if the forest hurls itself at them. Out of the trees on every side, shapes dive into the camp. They collide with people. Screams and growls flood the air around him and Clint feels as though he is in the eye of the storm.

A wolf looks at him for a second as it runs past, nodding, before it continues and Clint takes that as a good sign.

The noise and the chaos is over in less than a minute and suddenly Clint is standing in the middle of the camp, surrounded by groaning bodies and naked people. A lot of naked people. Some of whom he definitely recognises.

“Well now I’m feeling overdressed,” Tony says, sidling up to him, fully dressed, but he's pretty much the only one. “Hey Robin, heard you tried to sneak out without saying goodbye. Not cool. Definitely against the code of conduct.”

Clint ignores him

“Where’s Bucky?” he asks, looking around the people,  on the floor, amongst the bodies. There’s no sign of him, human or wolf. “They gave him something, some sort of drug. It made him wild. Where did he go?”

Steve steps forwards, sniffing the air. It takes a phenomenal amount of effort for Clint not to look at his dick.

So. Naked.

“That way,” Steve says, turning to stare off into the trees. Clint is running before he’s even finished speaking, jumping over the carnival people were they lie on the ground. There are shouts from behind him, but he ignores them.

A red fox comes up to run slightly ahead of him, guiding his steps, and he follows. Not that he needs a guide when the howling starts again, different this time, though, lonely and mournful and full of pain.

His breath is burning in his chest, but he keeps running.

The fox pulls up, but Clint ignores it, and the barking it makes that turns into a woman’s voice.

“Robin, stop! He’s dangerous like this.”

Natasha, of course.

“It’s Clint,” he says. “and if he was going to hurt me, he’d have done it already. Trust me. We’re good.” He skids to a halt. “Aren’ t we Bucky?”

Bucky is sitting, still wolfy, whimpering and scratching at his own skin.

“Aw no,” Clint says, approaching him with the same measured step he’s always used before. “Don’t look like that.” Bucky looks up and howls again. “Hey. It’s okay. You saved us.” He takes another few steps forwards until they are only a couple of metres apart. “Don’t hurt yourself, Buck. I swear we’re safe. You’re safe. I don’t know what they did to you –“ a piteous whimper “-but we’re good. You –“

Bucky launches himself at Clint, pitching him to the ground and burying his head in the curve of Clint’s neck, still whining, and Clint brings his hands up to bury them in the soft, dark fur.

“There you are,” he says, stroking his hands down Bucky’s back. “Don’t know what you were talking about – the big bad wolf? You’re a puppy.”

He keeps stroking as his mouth works on automatic, muttering nonsense.

“Well, I guess you’ve met my family now,” he says. “I’m a bit of a black sheep these days, so, all in all, I think it went quite well. Though I do think you’re supposed to do the meeting the family bit after the first date, but I guess we can work around that. If you still want to, I mean. If you don’t, that’s cool.”

He feels the wet rasp of a tongue against his cheek.

“Yeah, I’m not going to take that as an answer, because you are once again drugged out of your little wolfy mind. We really have to do this when you’re sober someday. And human.” Bucky licks him again. “Also, this is definitely weird now I know you’re you. Gonna take a bit of getting used to.”

“So you’re sticking around?” Steve asks from over Clint’s head. Clint cranes his neck to look. They are surrounded by upside down naked people. That’s weird.

“Uh… I mean. If you don’t want to arrest me…” Clint says, suddenly very aware that he’s talking to the sheriff. The sheriff who is apparently a wolf in his spare time, but still the sheriff.

“What for?” Steve asks. “The only crimes I saw were committed against you, not by you.”

“Uh…”

“And I’m sure that’s how it’ll stay,” Steve continues amiably, like there isn’t an undercurrent of steel to his words. “So you’re sticking around.” He shoots a very smug look over at Natasha – who is also naked. Clint hopes Sam isn’t going to kill him for this. Hell, he hopes Natasha isn’t going to kill him for this.

Steve steps forwards and Clint’s thoughts are dragged away from his untimely death by the sudden stiffening of Bucky above him as he goes from soft and cuddly, to pure hard muscle. Clint can _feel_ the vibrations of his growl.

“Maybe we should have this conversation later,” Steve says, stepping backwards. Bucky watches him for a second, to make sure he’s staying back, then goes back to rubbing his face against Clint with single minded determination.

What the fuck even is Clint’s life?

He really hopes they can do something like this again, only with Bucky human, and with a smaller audience.

“Any idea how long I’m going to be stuck here?” Clint asks.

“Get used to it,” Tony says, still sounding amused. He and Clint are still the only fully dressed people in the area. That’s an odd feeling.

“Cool, I guess,” Clint says and lets his head fall back to the ground. It’s pretty comfortable. He just hopes he doesn’t need to pee.


	11. Oh Come, Take a Chance on Me

Bucky wakes with the taste of bile in his mouth and his body aching and itching in equal measure. He doesn’t open his eyes at first, just lies there, breathing in the scents around him.

He is in his home, in his bed, and it takes a moment for him to go from ‘Thor must have been pouring me drinks last night’ to remembering the kicking and the screaming. The needle in his arm. Clint screaming. The smell of blood and the flood of feral instincts overtaking him.

The urge to attack.

He jerks upright, head pounding.

“Mmrf,” a voice tells him and a hand gropes at his side. “F’ck’ff ‘m tired.”

His head twists as he inhales, because both his eyes and he nose agree that _yes_ , that is Clint on top of the covers, curled in around him like a baby clutching their favourite teddy bear.

What. The. Fuck.

He might say that out loud because Clint stirs some more and his eyes open. The last thing Bucky remembers – apart from rage and pain and sorrow – is being stuck fill of feral-inducing chemicals and shoved into a cage with him.

But he’s alive. Bucky can hear his heartbeat, firm and steady, and he doesn’t look seriously injured, beyond the bruises blossoming across his face. Bucky’s hand reaches out to touch them – him – because sight and smell aren’t quite enough. Not now. Not here.

But his hand hovers in midair.

Fuck.

Clint knows. Not just the werewolf thing, but he’s seen the wild, broken side of Bucky as well. The thing they turned him into in the cages, the thing that ripped itself apart when it had no one left in front of it.

Clint’s eyes focus on him slowly and he smiles, like he’s actually glad to see him. Like Bucky isn’t a monster.

“Hey! You’re human,” he says. “That’s a good sign, right?”

“You’re alive,” Bucky says. His throat is scratchy and raw and his voice comes out low and crackly.

“Yeah, thanks for that. I mean, I would have figured something out. I am the amazing Hawkeye, but it turns out having an angry werewolf on my side is kind of awesome. Go team!” His grin grows.

“I didn’t kill you,” Bucky says, because that’s sort of the point here. He was going to kill Clint. He remembers that vividly. It was his last conscious thought before the feral state overtook him. Clint catches Bucky’s hand in his and there’s a sudden flash of relief that Clint is _solid_. Not a hallucination.

“No. I was worried for a second there,” Clint says. “But you were just playing.”

“Playing?” Bucky asks. That... doesn’t sound right.

“Yeah, Steve said it was something about...” Clint flushes a little and scratches his head, avoiding Bucky’s gaze. “Scent? Like you could smell that you knew me and ... uh... liked me?”

“Steve?” Bucky says, focusing on that, because the rest strays too close to something he can’t think about now, because Clint said no. Bucky has a vague sense memory of being surrounded by pack.

“Apparently your howling called in the cavalry,” Clint says. “Which was good, because – I mean, you were doing really well, a one-wolf fighting machine – but I’m not sure you could have got out of there without being really hurt.”

“Is everyone okay?” Bucky asks. He’s not sure what he’ll feel if the answer is ‘yes’, if his freedom came at the price of someone else’s life.

“Mostly,” Clint says, looking away a bit sadly. “A couple of the carnival crew didn’t make it. But we don’t know who... There was a lot of fur flying.” What he means is ‘we don’t know if it was you’. Bucky doesn’t know how to feel about that. Sometimes killing is the least terrible option and he refuses to feel bad about saving Clint's life.

Clint’s smile is weak and Bucky remembers suddenly that Clint actually knows these people. Knew them, he supposes. They were friends of his, once, perhaps. Colleagues at least. He tugs Clint close again.

“Still feeling a bit cuddly, huh?” Clint says as he shuffles closer to wrap his arms around Bucky’s waist. “I can go with that.”

“You smell distressed,” Bucky says, lowering his face into Clint’s hair to breathe him in again. He’s settling down a bit, and just having his scent there is relaxing Bucky as well, like a feedback loop.

“And that’s not creepy at all,” Clint says, but he smells amused, so Bucky’s not worried. “So you can smell... everything?”

“Pretty much,” Bucky says, letting Clint pull the conversation away from the areas he seemed to find too sensitive. “Except when you had the aconite. I don’t know how that works, I’ve never heard of it before, but Bruce said he’d heard something when he was travelling.”

“Huh,” Clint chuckles, and Bucky can feel the ripple of his abdominal muscles against his side. “Wanda said it was to protect me from the wolves.”

“Huh,” Bucky echoes, but he knows he sounds distant. “Pretty sure you don’t need protection from us.”

Clint stills again and sighs. He’s so wrapped up around Bucky, his scent seeped into the room completely, that Bucky smells it as soon as his mood changes.

“But maybe you needed protection against me,” he says. “I... fuck, I shouldn’t have stayed so long. I meant to just pass through. I never should have brought them here.”

“Not your fault,” Bucky says.

“You knew I was bad news,” Clint says. “As soon as I showed up you knew that I was going to fuck it all up here.”

“Is everything fucked up?”

“They stuck you in a cage.”

“Not the first time that’s happened,” Bucky says, forcing himself to shrug with practised nonchalance. What happened to him is not okay, and it’s never gone, but it’s in the past and every second he’s breathing he’s a second further away from it. “The pack’s okay?”

“Yeah, Steve says everyone’s fine,” Clint slumps back down onto the pillow, his hand still curved around Bucky’s back and stroking small circles into it absently. “Natasha caught the three Jacques sent to scout the place out, and they were asking about me, so she went looking.” He sighs. “They were tracking us pretty quickly, and then you howled and they came running.” He looks at Bucky. “It’s good that you have that. That’s... People having your back, that’s rare.”

“Your brother,” Bucky starts, but he can’t finish, because he can’t imagine what words to use. He can’t imagine a situation where Steve would betray him like that. They just... wouldn’t.

“He’s still out there,” Clint says. “He’s alive. I don’t want to think about him.”

“Right.”

Bucky becomes very aware that they are still in bed together and he is still naked.

“And how did we end up...?” he asks, waving his hand.

“Oh, you’re very cuddly when you’re dog-shaped,” Clint says easily, as though it’s that simple.

“I’m really not.”

Clint gives him a strange frown.

“You really are. I mean, I knew that before. You love head scratches – which is weird. It’s weird. Because you’re naked and you’re you and you’re... y’know... take-me-now kinda hot, but you’re also the wolf that I gave belly rubs to.”

Bucky blushes a furious scarlet.

“Take me now?” he says, trying to pull the conversation around. Clint’s eyes fix on him and he can feel the second that the air changes, when Clint’s tongue slips out to wet his lips.

“Ugh, you can’t say that right now,” he says. “You need to get checked out by the doc, and Steve is downstairs and...”

“One question,” Bucky says. Clint frowns, but nods. “Are you planning on sticking around?”

“Not got anywhere else to go...” He says, trying to make it sound like a joke and Bucky sighs, because Clint’s a mess and Bucky’s naked, and there’s still that ‘mine’ curling round in his head, but he’s not that big of a dick.

“I think I’d like it if you stuck around,” Bucky says.

“Course you would, I’m awesome,” Clint says. It smells like a lie and Bucky has to resist the urge to wrap himself around the other man and cover him in support, but that is too far. He’s not feral anymore, he has no excuse for it.

“Steve,” he says, making his voice just that bit louder. He knows Steve’s lurking somewhere just outside the door, and sure enough he’s there in a heartbeat.

“Buck! You’re awake. And human.”

“And naked,” Clint adds. “Is that something I should get used to now that I know about the whole werewolf town thing? Is everyone just going to be naked all the time?”

“No,” Steve says. “We try to limit the public nudity.” He turns back to Bucky. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, Clint says everyone’s alright.”

Steve narrows his eyes and looks between them.

“Yeah _Clint_ ’s right about that. We’ve got a few small injuries, but nothing serious. Could have been a lot worse.” He looks at the pair of them seriously. “Bucky, you should have called for help earlier.”

“Don’t keep a phone in my wolf-shape,” he says. “Didn’t want to give it away by howling. And they’d sent people to town, I didn’t want you to come after me while they were in Timely.”

“Next time, you call,” Steve says. “Leave the strategy to me, you’re shit at it.” He turns to Clint and sighs, Bucky can feel Clint tense up against him, swallowing furiously. There’s fear rolling off him in waves and Bucky gives Steve a ‘back off’ look. The guy just lost his family and found out his brother would sell him out, he doesn’t need a lecture. Steve rolls his eyes, but softens his posture a bit.

“Clint, as I guess I’m calling you now. We’re going to have to talk if you’re staying.”

“Am I?” Clint asks. “I mean, I’ve got no money and I’ve got no job.”

“If you want to stay, we’ll find you something to do,” Steve says. “But if you don’t want to stay, I’m not going to make you.”

“I’m a thief.”

“I haven’t seen any evidence of that.”

“I’ve hurt people.”

“Most people have,” Steve says. “From what I’ve seen, you’re a good guy. You work hard, you help people in need, you put up with this idiot being a royal pain in the ass for weeks.” Bucky ignores him. “I’m not worried about what you’ve done. From what I’ve seen, you saw what was going on was wrong and you made a choice to stop being that person. That’s a decision I admire. We’d be pleased to have you here.”

“Do I have to become a werewolf?” Clint asks. “Like, get bitten and the whole shebang? I mean, not that I’m not willing, shapeshifting sounds cool as fuck, but it’s also a bit weird.”

“No, you don’t have to be a werewolf or a were-anything. We’ve got humans in town as well. You’ve met Tony and Thor.”

“Thor’s human?” Clint asks, looking confused.

“Maybe,” Bucky says with a shrug. “I mean, I’ve never asked.”

“Huh,” Clint frowns. He looks at Bucky. “You really want me to stay?”

“Pretty sure you knew that before your old buddies showed up,” he says. Clint’s fingers on his back tighten slightly, then return to their meanderings. “It’s up to you.”

He gets the impression that there hasn’t been a lot in Clint’s life up to this point that’s been his decision, not really. It’s got to be scary, feeling that alone in the universe. Bucky remembers the feeling when the pack bond broke, after Hydra threw him in the fighting rings. Even then he’d had a goal though – get out, rip their throats from their necks, get home. Clint looks like he’s lost at sea without a compass on a cloudy night. He leans in close.

“It’s okay, it doesn’t have to be forever,” he says, low. He knows Steve can still hear him, but he also knows he’ll do them the courtesy of pretending he can’t. Bucky ignores his own distress at the idea of it not being forever. “You can try it out, see if you like it.”

“I already know I like it here,” Clint says slowly. “I just... I’d need a place to live, and a job, and like... a birth certificate.” His eyes grow wide.

“Relax. We can handle it,” Bucky tells him. “You’re good. You’re safe. There’s no one after you anymore. We’ve got time.”

“Huh...” Clint grins. “Time in Timely,” he says. Bucky rolls his eyes and Steve groans.

“You’re sure, Buck?” Steve asks. “This guy?” Bucky glares at him, then tucks his arm around Clint again, who is looking a little worried.

“He’s grown on me,” he says. Steve gets this smug little grin, like he knew this was going to happen all along. Bucky knows at some point he’ll feel annoyed by that, but he’s actually feeling pretty good about things right now.

“I’ll go get Bruce,” Steve says, still grinning as he leaves them to it.

“So I guess we’re... doing this us thing, then?” Clint says.

“If you want to,” Bucky says again, pulling his arm away, because he’s been assuming that now Clint’s staying that this is happening, but Clint said no before. What if he just... doesn’t want to?

“You know, I’m sure this is a bad idea.”

“Almost certainly,” Bucky agrees solemnly.

“But you’re naked.”

“Glad you noticed.”

“And you saved my life.”

“I didn’t do that to make you –“

“I know... let me,” Clint pulls back. “You’re an asshole,” he says. “But you’re the kind of asshole who looks out for everyone and threw yourself into a crowd of people who wanted to kill me to save me, and who pays attention when I say things. And I have it on good authority that Steve’s got good taste in people, so I guess you must be alright if he likes you.” Bucky laughs a bit. “And I kinda like you.”

“I kinda like you, too,” Bucky agrees.

“Also,” Clint says, running his fingers through Bucky’s hair as if he’s comparing it with Bucky’s wolf fur. “I did always want a dog when I was a kid.”

*

The Timely Summer Fayre is a grand event. The town is decked out in bunting and they close off the streets and fill them up with booths and stalls selling home made crafts of all varieties, from simple jewellery to a table full of stained glass. The bar spills out onto the street as well, and it seems like everyone’s got a grill out, claiming that theirs are the best ribs in the whole town.

Clint wanders through, taking it all in. It reminds him of all the best parts of the carnival: the smell of popcorn and cotton candy, the grins on the kids faces. He loves the bright colours and the laughter that’s surrounding him. There are even a few small rides playing tinny music as they go round.

There are activities for those in wolf-shape too and, now Clint’s in the know, it’s cool to see the wolves and other animals darting around, just as involved as everyone else. The ‘no shifting on the street’ policy is still in effect, though, and there are a few ‘changing’ tents set up, dotted around here and there, to make it easier for everyone.

The first person he finds is Natasha, who’s waiting in line by a tank of water.

“What’s this?” he asks, sliding up next to her, and she raises an eyebrow with a smirk, showing him the bean bag in her hand.

“This is ‘Dunk the Sheriff’,” she says. “The aim of the game is to get Steve soaking wet.”

“It’s very popular,” Darcy says from ahead of them. She has a wicked gleam in her eye.

“You throw the bean bag at the lever,” Natasha says. “If you hit, Steve falls into the tub.”

“Such a pity,” Darcy adds.

Clint leans past them to look at Steve. He’s sitting on a platform over a tub full of water with a smile on his face as a little girl throws her beanbag. Her tongue sticks out of her mouth as she concentrates on her throw.

“GO CASSIE!” Darcy hollers.

The beanbag falls into the water instead and there are sounds of general disappointment.

“You’ve got to do it!” Darcy says, grabbing Clint. “I’ve seen you throw darts, there’s no way you’d miss.”

“I never miss,” Clint says, “Maybe later. I’m looking for Bucky.”

Natasha’s smirk grows into a grin and she and Darcy share a look.

“He’s on the east side of town,” she says. “Trust me, you’ll know it when you see it.”

“Thanks,” he looks up at Steve again, who still seems quite unpeturbed by the growing number of people who seem to want him dunked. “Good luck, I guess.”

Darcy gives him a thumbs up.

Clint slips away and darts around a little group of wolves and other assorted canines who seemed to be playing an elaborate game of tag.

On the other side of the crossroads, Thor has set up an arm-wrestling tournament. Clint’s not entirely sure whether that was planned or if he just decided to do it spontaneously.

He stays long enough to see Ms Carter the librarian solidly defeat Thor’s friend Fandral before heading east again.

It seems like everyone’s got something they’ve organised. Clint almost bumps into a large mechanical arm that he remembers from the corner of Tony’s workshop. It’s trundling around beeping at people with a sign hanging off it advertising robot races, but when Clint actually finds the races, they seem to have dissolved into more of a robot petting zoo. And Tony is declaring that all the robots are fired.

There isn’t much further east than that, just the kissing booths. He guesses Bucky is probably…

Clint stops and stares, because that is _not_ what he was expecting.

The kissing booths are really just tables covered in paper cut-out lip and heart shapes in various shades of pink. There are four of them set up, with queues in neat lines. That much makes sense, what doesn’t so much make sense, is who’s sitting behind two of the tables.

“This started last year,” a voice says on Clint’s right. He turns to see Jane, the vet… or doctor… or whatever a were-creature doctor is called,  standing next to him. She has a large cup of coffee and Clint would ask her where she got it, but there are more pressing questions on his mind right now. Such as how Sam and Bucky ended up in the kissing booths. “They wanted to know who would get the most money.”

“And?” Clint asks.

“It was a draw,” Jane says. “They were both trying to convince Steve at the end, but he just kissed both of them and got dragged away by Tony.” She sighs.

“Fifteen, Barnes,” Sam calls out. “What you up to? Ten?”

Bucky just glares, which means Sam is probably right.

“Well that won’t do,” Clint says. “How much per kiss?” he asks Jane. She looks at him, mouth open and eyebrows drawn together, like she wants to say something, but she shakes her head. “A dollar,” she tells him.

“Hey, what do you know,” Clint says, “I’ve got a twenty in my pocket.”

He strolls over to Bucky’s line and waits patiently.

“Seventeen,” Bucky calls.

“Twenty,” Sam calls, shaking the jar of quarters. “Listen to the sweet sound of success.”

The boy in front of Clint hurries up, a bit shyly – there’s a bit of heckling from the crowd, his friends probably put him up to it – and gets a peck on the cheek from Bucky, and then Clint steps forwards.

Bucky’s smile at seeing him makes Clint pretty much melt into goo, but he’s got enough presence of mind to step forward brandishing the twenty.

“How many will this get me?”

“Are you about to pay me to kiss you with my own money?” Bucky asks.

“Well, I feel bad about beating you at darts again. Thought I’d give it back to you,” Clint says.

“Twenty bucks, huh?” Bucky says, as Clint pushes the bill into the jar.

“That’s twenty kisses,” Clint says.

Bucky glances past him at the line.

“Might hold up the line a bit,” he says. “That’s not good for business.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have one now, and you can just owe me the rest,” Clint says. “I’ll even take instalments if you want.”

“Sounds good,” Bucky tells him, flashing a smile. He reaches out and snags Clint’s hand, running his fingers across the pulse point before bringing it up to his face to scent it. Clint’s getting more used to the wolfy side of things, though it’s still a bit weird to him.

Bucky turns his hand over and lifts an eyebrow, before pulling Clint’s knuckles gently to his lips and grinning as Clint shudders at the sensation.

“I’ll give you the other nineteen later,” he says. “I get out of here in an hour.”

“Can’t wait,” Clint tells him with a wink, before turning away. As he walks back to where Jane is standing. She shakes her head at him, but looks amused.

“Thirty eight, Wilson.”

“That doesn’t count, Barnes!”

*

Clint does not join in the eating competition, much to Tony’s dismay. He does go back to Dunk the Sheriff, though.

“You sure you want to do this, Clint?” Steve calls out.

“Yes! He is!” Darcy shouts back.

“Think very carefully about your actions,” Steve says, ignoring her.

“Yeah, that’s not really my thing,” Clint says, pulling back his arm and letting the beanbag fly. It hits the lever dead on and the startled horror on Steve’s face as the platform underneath him collapses is worth the money, as is the cheer that goes up around the pool.

Steve comes up to the surface, spluttering, his shirt sticking to him and spits out a mouthful of water.

“I don’t know what you’re laughing about Natasha, you’re next up here,” he says. “I’m going to remember this.”

Bucky finds Clint at the robot racetrack, trying to convince his robot to chase the laser pointer, rather than run into the walls, as it seems to want to.

He crouches down next to him and kisses his shoulder.

“That’s two,” Bucky says.

Clint turns and meets his eyes. He passes the laser pointer to the kid next to him. “Use this wisely,” he says as he stands up.

And then he lets himself be pulled away from the mass of people, between two nearby buildings, where Bucky pushes him up against the wall.

“Now how many kisses did I owe you?” he asks, running a finger over Clint’s lips.

“Millions,” Clint says. “Thousands.”

“You realise that’s less than millions, right?” Bucky asks. Clint rolls his eyes.

“Not the point,” he says. “Just kiss me already.” He leans in to try to press his lips to Bucky, but Bucky pushes him back against the wall.

“The rules of the kissing booth state that the kisser initiates the kiss,” he says. “It’s very important.”

“I’m not very good at following rules,” Clint says.

“Then maybe I should teach you.”

The next kiss lands on Clint’s collar bone.

“Three,” Bucky announces. Then there’s one on his nose, which makes Clint glare. “Four.”

One on each cheek, one on the hollow of his throat and then another three up the side of his neck to his ear where Bucky takes his earlobe in between his teeth and bites down gently.

“Eleven,” Clint says, breathing heavily. Bucky chuckles in his ear.

“That wasn’t a kiss,” he says. “This is a kiss.” He pushes the hem of Clint’s t-shirt up and plants a kiss in the centre of his chest. “Eleven.”

There are another four down to his stomach, then Bucky licks a strip across his hip bone and pulls back.

“In case you were wondering, that wasn’t a kiss either,” he says.

“Fuck you,” Clint replies. Bucky grins.

He kisses Clint’s nipples, once each, then traces his tongue around them.

“There are… kids around,” Clint says, his head rolling back against the wall.

“They’re busy,” Bucky tells him, then makes the most of Clint’s head tilt to kiss him again on the bob of his adam’s apple. “Eighteen. How are you enjoying playing by the rules?”

Clint groans, and He can feel Bucky’s chuckle as he pulls Clint’s hand to him again and kisses his wrist gently.

“Nineteen.”

Bucky releases his hand and looks him up and down.

“Where do you think I should kiss you next?” he asks. Leaning in close, so that Clint can feel his breath over his lips, made more sensitive by the way Clint’s been biting at them.

“I can think of a few places,” he says and Bucky grins at him.

“I bet you can, but I have an idea.” He raises himself up. Clint’s never really thought of himself as being taller than Bucky, but apparently he is, and Bucky’s lips brush against his forehead and rest there as Bucky breathes him in.

It’s strangely intimate, for something so chaste, and Clint closes his eyes, lost in the feeling of the wall against his back and Bucky at his front, touching him from top to bottom, warm and steady.

“Twenty,” Clint says.

“Twenty,” Bucky agrees. Then he pulls back and smiles a more crooked, smile, softer than the ones before. “New rule of the kissing booth,” he says.

“What’s that?” Clint asks.

“ _You_ never have to pay.”

He leans forwards and their lips finally connect. Bucky’s tongue darts out and Clint is more than eager to open for it. His hands come up and he spins them round so it’s Bucky who’s got his back to the wall.

It’s not their first kiss, not by a long shot. The days after the carnival had come and gone had been a strange, awkward place, a little shy until Clint had remembered that he wasn’t at all shy, and Bucky had just shifted back to human from wolf-shape and they had collided in the middle. They had gone from nought to sixty pretty damn quick and spent the next two days of their ‘bed rest’ in bed together.

But even if it’s not their first kiss, Clint still can’t quite believe it’s happening. Can’t believe that he actually has this: his hands kneading at the muscles of Bucky’s back, or tangled in Bucky’s hair, Bucky’s mouth hot and demanding against his own, making little noises of satisfaction every time Clint finds a new thing that he enjoys, the hot pressure of Bucky’s thigh pushing between his own, right where he wants it.

“Hey, you two, this is a family event,” Sam calls and Clint drags himself away from Bucky to glare at him. “Don’t give me that, you know what you were doing.”

“I’ve put up with you and Nat at full moons for years,” Bucky complains. His voice is wrecked and Clint feels a happy thrill of pride that he was responsible for that.

“Full moons are adults only,” Sam tells him, crossing his arms. “Don’t make me get the hose.”

“Fine,” Bucky says. “Clint, you still have your room at the guesthouse, right.”

“Yep,” Clint says, exploring the line of Bucky’s neck with his lips.

“Oh, no. Nonononono,” Sam says. “I change those sheets, Barnes. Don’t you dare.” Bucky ignores him and grins at Clint.

“Want to get out of here?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Sam shouts a few half-hearted insults after them as they dash away like horny teenagers, running through the fayre hand in hand. It’s still going full swing and Clint loves every part of it, home-made and wonky as it is.

“Hey,” he says, as they pull away from the crowds to where the guesthouse is.

“Yeah?” Bucky says, turning back. He looks at Clint carefully. “Are you okay?”

“You think next year I could do an archery display or something?” he asks. Bucky grins and pulls him close to deliver an eager kiss to his mouth again.

“Yeah, I think you could do that,” he says.

“Awesome,” Clint says.

Bucky tugs him towards the building, and Clint gives the fayre a last look.

“I’m glad I stuck around,” he says.

“The feeling is definitely mutual.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And done. The sappiest sappy ending that ever there was.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://mariana-oconnor.tumblr.com).
> 
> Thank you for reading! And to the Winterhawk Big Bang mods for arranging everything. And to my awesome artist. Check out the amazing artwork: [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15230910).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Lost & Found](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15230910) by [aw_writing_no](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aw_writing_no/pseuds/aw_writing_no)




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